by Alex Lukeman
"Watch the woman on Kolkov's right, the one in the hat."
The recording crept forward. Several people jostled around the Russian, one of them a woman in a big hat. They watched her bump against Kolkov and walk past him. Seconds later he pitched forward onto the pavement.
"Now here's the recording from a different camera, facing toward Kolkov."
Once again they watched the Russian leave the main terminal, pushing through the crowd toward the taxis. The woman in the hat appeared behind him, just another person in the crowd. She had her head down. The hat covered most of her face.
"She knew about the cameras," Nick said.
"Figures," Lamont said. "The Russians don't use amateurs."
They watched her bump against Kolkov and move away. As she did, they caught a fleeting glimpse of her face.
Selena gasped. "Valentina."
Selena's half-sister.
Selena's father had been an agent for the CIA, stationed in West Germany during the Cold War. A KGB agent had been ordered to seduce him, but something more than tradecraft had happened between the two spies. Valentina Antipova was the result of the forbidden liaison.
Her father had been sent back home to the states with a reprimand. Her mother had returned to Soviet Russia. She'd managed to keep the child and stay in the KGB. Valentina had been brought up by a succession of KGB minders and trained to become one of the their most accomplished assassins. With the fall of the Soviet Union she'd continued her training under the guidance of her mentor, General Vysotsky.
"She wasn't on the plane," Steph said. "She was waiting for him inside the terminal."
The image on the monitors switched to a recording of passengers milling about inside the terminal, near the exit to the taxis. Stephanie froze the recording on the woman in the hat, walking toward the exit doors a few steps behind Kolkov. There was no doubt that it was Valentina.
"Damn it," Selena said.
"It's what she does," Nick said.
"That doesn't help, does it? She's still my sister."
"I kind of like her," Lamont said. "She saved our ass in Egypt. Hell, she's hot."
Nick looked at him and shook his head.
Lamont shrugged. "What?"
"Your sister is a complicated individual," Elizabeth said. "Selena, you need to set aside your feelings for her. Can you do that?"
"I've done it before. I can do it again."
"All right. Now, Kolkov had a carry-on. French security has it. We need to examine what was in it." Elizabeth looked at Selena's swollen belly. "Can you handle a flight to Paris?"
"Yes."
"Good. I want you and Nick to go over there and talk to a contact I have in the DGSE. I'd just send Nick but he doesn't speak French and you do. I want the two of you to examine that carry-on and find out if anything is hidden in it."
"Won't the French have taken it apart?" Nick asked.
"I'm sure they've looked through it. But they don't know Kolkov was working with Langley and they don't know he was planning to defect. At this point his murder is a mystery to them."
"When do we leave?" Selena asked.
CHAPTER 5
Valentina Antipova entered General Vysotsky's office and came to attention in front of his desk.
As always, Alexei was struck by Valentina's feral beauty. She moved with the unconscious grace of a dangerous animal, as if the air simply parted in front of her. She was in uniform, but it couldn't suppress her naturally seductive form. Two gold stars and double red stripes on her shoulder boards signified her rank as a Lieutenant Colonel. Her dark brown hair was bound up in back of her head, as required by regulations.
Her eyes bore out the impression of an alpha predator. They were a piercing green. Her cheekbones were high, slightly uneven, her lips full and red.
Valentina drew glances from men and women wherever she went, right up to the moment when she looked at the person doing the glancing. There was something in her stare that could chill the most ardent would-be suitor.
One suitor would not be chilled or denied. Valentina was an occasional companion in Vladimir Orlov's bed.
"Sit, Valentina, sit."
"Yes, sir."
Valentina sat in a chair near the desk.
"There's no need to be formal. It's only you and me, here. After all these years together we can relax with each other, no?"
He wants something. He knows damn well I can never relax around him.
Vysotsky opened his desk drawer and took out the bottle of vodka and two small glasses.
"You will drink with me."
Vysotsky poured and handed a glass to her.
"A toast. To the success of your mission and your successful return. Na Z'drovnya."
"Na Z'drovnya."
They raised their glasses and threw back the alcohol.
Vysotsky refilled his glass and held up the bottle. "Another?"
"Why not?"
They sipped the vodka.
"You had no problems in France?"
"None. I was gone before anyone knew what had happened."
"Kolkov was a traitor. He was going to defect, which is why I sent you. He was feeding information to the Americans."
"What kind of information?"
"The kind neither you nor I are supposed to know about."
Valentina shrugged. "He was a traitor. That's all that matters."
"I have another assignment for you. President Orlov is very angry about the bombing of the market. The group behind it is headed by a man known only by his street name."
"Which is?"
"He's called The Spider."
"Terrorists are such children. These comic book names make them feel special."
"Still, it's suitably frightening, don't you think? The image of a mastermind sitting at the center of his terrorist web, ready to strike."
"Then if he's a spider, we need an exterminator."
"That's where you come in, my dear."
"You want me to kill him."
"I would much prefer he was captured so we could question him."
"That might not be possible."
"I know. I'm simply asking you to remember that we would like to, umm, talk with him."
"How am I supposed to find him?"
"That is the difficult part of your assignment. I have every confidence in you, Valentina."
"Do you have anything for me to go on? A place to start?"
"Orlov ordered Voroshenko to share information with me. He wasn't happy about it, but he didn't have a choice."
Kiril Voroshenko was the director of the FSB.
"They picked up someone a month ago, a low-level member of the network. It is because of him that we know about this man. The prisoner was from Kapotnya. You can start your inquiries there."
Kapotnya was considered one of the worst districts in Moscow, a hotbed of criminal activity in the southeast part of the city. Its main claim to fame was an enormous oil processing plant that bathed the area in unpleasant and dangerous fumes. It was also a favorite with Moscow's large homeless population. Miles of huge pipes radiated away from the central plant in a gigantic spider web, carrying gas and oil. The pipes could reach temperatures of hundreds of degrees and provided a kind of shelter and warmth in the bitter Moscow winters. In summer, they were a place to hide.
"I would like to question this individual," Valentina said.
"I'm afraid that's impossible. He seems to have had a weak heart. Voroshenko's thugs were overly enthusiastic when they interrogated him."
"Kapotnya covers a lot of territory," Valentina said.
Vysotsky opened a drawer, took out a red folder, and slid it across the desk.
"This is everything we have. He lived in an apartment block near the oil processing plant. There are a lot of gopniki there, conditions are not the best."
The gopniki were a subculture of petty street criminals, dangerous punks who hung out together in groups and preyed on anyone unlucky enough to cross their path.
Valentina laughed. "That's one way of putting it."
"You'll have to watch yourself. The criminals are in charge in Kapotnya. Sex slaves, migrant exploitation, prostitution, drugs, you name it."
Valentina opened the folder. There was a picture inside of a dark eyed, dark-haired man. One of his eyes had been blackened and his face was bruised. He looked vaguely Asian. She read the name below the picture.
"Faraz Abdulov. A Tajik?"
"An immigrant. He'd been here for seventeen months."
"I was unaware of any Tajik terrorist organizations."
"There are several, mostly opposed to their corrupt government. Two or three want to establish an Islamic caliphate in Central Asia. Many Tajiks joined Isis. Now that Isis has been defanged, the Tajik volunteers still alive are coming home. Of course, there's no defeat for this ideology. Everything goes on as before, waiting for the next opportunity to strike. Possibly it is a remnant of Isis that set off the bomb, but we need to be certain. Whoever they are, they must be eliminated."
"What advantage would a Tajik group gain from attacking us?"
"Aside from claiming credit for an attack against the infidel, none. On the contrary, it could have repercussions. The country needs our goodwill."
"Perhaps it is not a Tajik group."
"Perhaps not. Part of your assignment is to find out."
"I will need resources."
"You can have whatever you need."
"And if I find this man? This spider?"
"If you can't take him, kill him."
CHAPTER 6
It was a beautiful morning in Washington, D.C., a perfect day for golf. Vice President Ethan Reynolds eyed the flag on the eighteenth hole. His ball lay thirty feet away, off the edge of the green. He turned to his caddy.
"What do you think, John?"
"A nine, sir. You're looking up hill at the green. With the nine, you can put it on the green and it will roll right to the pin."
"Hmm."
Standing nearby was Reynold's golfing partner for the day, the senior senator from New York, Howard Palmer. Sixty-two years old, he had the look of a well fed member of America's upper-class, of a man born and bred to wealth and power. It took more than money and a good tailor to create that look.
"I'd use the eight, Ethan."
"Hmm," Reynolds said again. "John, I'll take the nine."
Palmer said, "A hundred says you'll roll past the pin."
"Done."
Reynolds addressed the ball, settled himself and took the shot. The ball lifted out of the grass, dropped onto the green and rolled, coming to a stop just short of the pin.
"Nice shot, sir," the caddy said.
Palmer took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it over. The two men walked up to the green and finished the game. On the way back to the clubhouse they let the caddies move ahead. When Palmer was sure they were out of earshot, he turned to the vice president.
"Everything's set. It's a go when Corrigan makes his speech in Atlanta next week."
"You're sure nothing will go wrong?"
"Nothing is ever sure. But we'll never get a better chance."
"What if they trace it back to us?"
"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet at this stage of the game, Ethan. There's no way this will be traced back to us. Just relax. In another week, you'll be president."
"What about the shooter?"
"He won't be telling anyone anything. He'll be caught trying to escape and killed. The real shooter will be long gone. This isn't the first time we've done something like this."
"I don't want to know about that."
"No, you don't."
"Wilson over at the Hoover building won't make any trouble. But what about Hood?"
"Langley will have plenty to do. The man they identify as the shooter will turn out to be a Russian immigrant. Hood will literally run off after a red herring. He'll be busy trying to find out if Moscow is behind the assassination. The press will eat it up. You can expect your first week in office to be marked by a diplomatic crisis with the Federation. You'd better catch up on your sleep before then."
Reynolds laughed. "That's the last thing I'm worried about."
Palmer clapped the vice president on the shoulder.
"That's the spirit."
The two men headed for the clubhouse. As they walked, Palmer looked up at the clear, blue sky.
Life is good, he thought.
Yes, it was a beautiful day in the nation's capital.
CHAPTER 7
Nick and Selena were met at the airport by Elizabeth's connection in the DGSE, France's equivalent of the CIA. Paul Bernard didn't look like a spy, but then most spies didn't. That was the thing about spies. If you could tell someone was a spy by looking at them, they wouldn't be very good at spying.
Bernard was a few inches shorter than Nick. His hair was light brown, thinning on top, combed straight back. It was hard to say exactly what color his eyes were, perhaps hazel, perhaps brown. His ears were close to his head, his eyebrows almost nonexistent. His nose was small and seemed to mold into his face when you looked at him. His lips were neither thin nor thick. He wore a shapeless gray suit jacket and black pants. Two minutes after meeting him, Nick had a hard time remembering what he looked like.
"Welcome to France," Bernard said. His English was precise.
They shook hands.
"I have a car waiting. You have luggage?"
"No," Selena said. "We're flying back tonight."
"Without seeing Paris?"
"We've both been here before, Monsieur Bernard."
"Yes," Bernard said, "I know. Your files make interesting reading."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Nick said.
Bernard gestured with his hand. "If you'll follow me?"
He led the way to the terminal doors, where a gray Citroen SUV and driver waited for them. Bernard eyed Selena's pregnant form.
"Perhaps you would like to sit in the front?"
"No, that's fine. I'll sit in back with Nick."
"As you wish."
Bernard held one of the doors open for Selena. Nick got in on the other side. The French agent reached into his jacket and took out two pieces of plastic with clips on the end, stamped VISITEUR in large blue letters.
"Put these on, please. You'll need them once we arrive."
DGSE headquarters was in the 20th arrondissement, on the right bank of the Seine. It was a large white office building shaped like a square U. They paused at a security checkpoint, showed their identification, and drove into an underground garage. The driver let them off by an elevator. He'd said not a word during the entire drive. Nick watched him pull away.
"Talkative, isn't he?" Nick said to Bernard.
"Pardon?"
"Your driver. He doesn't talk much."
A twitch of Bernard's lips might have been a smile.
"It's not his job to talk."
They waited for the elevator.
"If you don't mind me asking, what is your interest in this suitcase? We already sent an inventory and photographs to your CIA."
"The Russian, Kolkov," Selena said.
"Yes?"
"He was an occasional source of information for Langley. I'm sure you have been very thorough. It's a formality. We've been asked to do a hands-on examination."
"Ah, a source of information. We suspected that was the case. But you are not CIA. Why are you here, and not one of Hood's people?"
Nick kept his mouth shut.
"As a favor," Selena said.
"A favor?"
"Yes. It's something between our Director Harker and DCI Hood."
"Ah," Bernard said again. "Well, it's a long way to come to look at someone's underwear."
The elevator door opened. They got in and rode up to the fifth floor. A long, polished corridor stretched away from the elevator, lined with closed doors on both sides. The only sounds were their footsteps in the empty hallway, but Nick could sense a lot of
activity going on behind those doors.
About halfway down the corridor, Bernard paused, took out a key card and slid it through a scanner. A light turned green on the lock and he pushed the door open. They stepped into an office that looked out on the tree-lined boulevard in front of the building.
Kolkov's suitcase lay open on a table in the center of the room. The contents had been laid out along the table in neat rows. Nick noted a security camera in the corner of the room, watching them.
"We thought it would be easier for you to examine everything if we set it out for you."
After you made sure there was nothing worth finding, Nick thought.
"This is everything?" Selena asked.
"But of course. I'll leave you here to examine his things. Take your time. I'll be back in a few moments."
Bernard smiled and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
"Nice of them to put everything out for us," Nick said.
He turned his back to the camera and raised his eyebrows at Selena. Room's bugged, he mouthed.
"Yes," Selena said. "Let's start looking, but it doesn't appear very promising."
Kolkov's belongings told them a lot about him. It wasn't so much what was there as what wasn't. There was nothing in the clothing of particularly high quality or expense. A couple of pairs of underwear, some socks, T-shirts, some toilet articles, a cased CD of classical music, a portable CD player with ear phones, two casual shirts, a white dress shirt, a pair of slippers, black trousers, and a thin robe.
"Not much to show for who he was," Nick said.
"It's about what you'd expect," Selena said. "The man was just a mid-level bureaucrat."
"Everything is serviceable but nothing stands out."
Selena picked up the CD player and the disc.
"You don't see these much anymore. Everyone is listening on their phones." She looked at the disc. "He liked classical music. This is a recording of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. It's one of my favorites."
She plugged in the earphones, put them on, inserted the disc and turned on the player. As the introduction began she began humming along with it.
In another room down the hall, Bernard and another man watched Nick and Selena on a monitor.
