by Tim Tigner
Awash in grief at the loss of one of his oldest friends and with his mind still reeling from the potential impact on his grand plan, Karpov now had to woo the one woman who seemed immune to his usual charms.
Stepashin had been right about her on both accounts. As a first lady, Anna fit the bill perfectly. As a woman, she bewitched him like no other. Karpov had found himself captivated at a carnal level the moment they’d met. He had been yearning to possess her ever since. He was used to having his career on the line, but tonight his happiness was also at risk.
“What drew you to medicine?” he asked.
Anna raised her eyebrows. “No ‘Have you been here before?’ or ‘What are you in the mood for tonight?’ but straight to the main course.” She left it there like a question, without answering his.
He liked her style. “A couple hours is not a lot of time to get to know someone more than superficially, especially someone so complex and multifaceted. I want to know you more than superficially. I thought the biggest decision of your life would be a good place to start.”
She just looked at him, obviously expecting him to say more. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had pushed back rather than rushing to please him. He found it refreshing, and he could use it to draw her in. “I’m a pretty competitive guy,” he added, “and I think I know the answer. I’d like to know if I’m right.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her amber eyes, followed by the hint of a grin. “It’s not a trivial question, but I’ll answer it if you’ll agree to do the same. Will you answer a meaningful question for me?”
He held out his hand, eager to initiate physical contact. “You’ve got a deal, doctor.”
She shook it across the table, surprisingly firm and businesslike, reminding him that despite their beauty, hers were a surgeon’s hands. “I thought a career in medicine would allow me to maximize my contribution to society.”
“Go on.”
“I thought I’d enjoy both the analytical challenges and the interpersonal dynamics, and be good at them.”
“Has that proven to be the case?”
“So far.”
“What part of the job do you enjoy the most?”
“Outreach programs. One in particular. A nurse and I drive a stocked ambulance to remote villages on the last Sunday of every month. We take treatment to those who can’t come to it. It’s always the toughest, most rewarding day of the month.
“But enough about me. Did you pass? Were my reasons the ones you’d expected?”
“They were.”
“So I’m predictable?”
Karpov wasn’t completely sure that she was playing with him, and found his blindness disconcerting. After a lifetime in the KGB, he could usually read people’s emotions like menu entrées. Anna was proving immune to his charms and impervious to his powers. “No. To be honest I’m finding you charmingly unpredictable. But as I had sensed the first time we met, your motivations parallel my own.” He held up two fingers side by side. “The reasons you gave for selecting medicine are the very same reasons I chose my career.” He paused to allow her time to run the comparative analysis. Then he asked, “So what’s your question?”
Before she could answer, the waiter approached with a silver tray holding a bottle of French champagne, two crystal glasses, and a bowl of black caviar with toasted baguette slices and pats of butter. “As requested, general: Veuve Clicquot and Iranian Beluga.”
Karpov had weighed the pros and cons of going modest versus extravagant. In the end he decided that the winning combination would be modest behavior coupled with a glimpse at the lifestyle that could be hers. Tonight’s food and drink would be the best she had ever tasted. He wanted to leave that positive association imprinted on her senses. “I’ll take it from here, Roma,” he said, reaching for the bottle.
Karpov popped the cork and poured two flutes, fogging the glass and adding a yeasty aroma to the air. As he raised his with the intention of toasting their acquaintance, she beat him to the punch. “To sharing,” she said, “beyond the superficial. With all the benefits it brings.”
It had been a long time since Karpov had sat across a chessboard, literal or metaphoric, from someone who surprised him, someone who left him feeling unsure about what would happen next. For the first time he understood the moth who had spotted a flame. With some trepidation he asked, “What’s your question?”
“My brother Kostya died five years ago during the radiation accident at the complex where you now work. I know there’s no way a man of your intelligence and means would work anywhere near that site without first learning the details. My question is this: What really happened?”
Chapter 36
SIBERIAN OUTBACK, RUSSIA
The sight of the American brought a Mona Lisa smile to Yarik’s lips. He was glad to catch Alex before the wilderness did but sorry that the hunt was ending. Of course, he would still have the interrogation . . .
Alex was about half a kilometer ahead, moving through a thicket. He did not seem to be making much progress. Could it be that his foot was stuck in a hunter’s snare? Or was it just deep snow slowing him down? Actually, from this distance Yarik couldn’t even be certain that it was Alex, but who else could it be?
Yarik felt the adrenaline kick in and further increased the speed of his rhythmic, downward-bounding strides without taking his eye off the mark. Hrunk . . . hrunk . . . hrunk . . . his footfalls crunched the snow. Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch, his trigger finger began to itch.
An arctic hare scurried from the side of the path a few meters ahead, the first Yarik had seen. It had been nibbling on . . . something. Instinct flashed a warning. Yarik thudded to a stop on both feet, sending a spray of snow surging forward like a braking skier.
He drew his Stechkin pistol and crouched at the spot where the hare had been. Then Yarik brushed aside the powdery snow with his left hand. He found a piece of taught rope. It was a length of white parachute cord. Alex had strung it out across the crevice beneath the snow.
Yarik directed his full attention to the ground at his feet. He brushed aside more snow and found another trip-cord an arm’s length further down, and then another. Scattered throughout was a series of concealed stakes, each pointing viciously upwards beneath loose white powder. Alex had lured him into a deadly trap. If it had not been for the hare chewing the rope, he would have uncovered those stakes with his chest, rather than his hand. The nesting critter had saved his life. Yarik would have to rethink his hunting habits.
This, however, was no time to dwell on what might have been. The hunt was about to end. Alex had sacrificed his lead for a trap that had failed. He was just a couple hundred meters in front now, struggling, stuck, and unarmed.
Yarik felt like whistling as he resumed the chase, but he could not afford the noise. He still had to take the American unharmed. As he came to the top of the last small hill before the stream, Yarik got a better view of his prey. Alex was weaving and bobbing, not struggling and receding. Humiliation smacked Yarik in the face. He had been chasing a scarecrow.
A minute later, still shocked by the thoroughness with which Alex had duped him, Yarik reached the object that had made him reckless. It was the liner of a coat, strung up to bob in the wind between the branches of two birch trees. Cunning bastard.
This was a disappointment, but not a defeat. Alex had sacrificed half his lead to make the trap and its accompanying decoy. Yarik considered abandoning his measured pursuit to sprint after Alex. The American could not be that far ahead. Once he caught sight of him, it would all be over. It was a tempting prospect, but again instinct flashed caution. Alex was proving to be a proficient hunter himself. It would not be out of character for him to anticipate that reaction and plant a second trap to take advantage of his rage. Hell, it was even starting to seem conceivable that Alex might be planning to attack him. No, Yarik decided, he would not change his
tactics. He was a bulldog, not a greyhound. The bastard even has me second-guessing myself.
For hour after hour Yarik kept on, swift and steady, knowing that Alex was just beyond his visual reach but not managing to close the gap. Ferris was the best he had chased, ever. Accepting that, Yarik recovered from his near-fatal stupidity and found sport in the chase once again.
There were times when he went for extended periods without a single sign that he was on the right trail. Those were intriguing tests if not agonizing trials, but a scuffmark or a fractured twig inevitably vindicated his instincts. It seemed that Alex was getting better at concealing his tracks as time progressed. That was unusual. Usually people got worse over time as they fatigued and the lack of nourishment diminished their power of concentration.
Yarik crested the fourth rise of the day around noon. On three prior occasions he had sprinted the last hundred meters to the top in anticipation, and all three times he had met with disappointment. Would this one be any different?
He reached the top and found the woods were thicker than before. He couldn’t tell if his quarry was now within visual range, so he climbed a tree to survey the ground ahead. Halfway up he found the spot where another climber had torn away a piece of bark within the hour. They were thinking alike now. He would remember that.
Yarik finished the ascent and quickly scanned the countryside ahead, searching for movement rather than color. Nothing in the foreground attracted his trained eyes, but he saw smoke coming over the top of the next rise. He drew a mental azimuth to the point and picked out a few landmarks along the way. He descended quickly, using arms rather than legs. Snapping branches and smearing sap. Yarik knew that Alex might not be the source of the smoke, but he was confident that the American would at least head in that direction. Smoke meant food.
It took twenty minutes at top speed to get to the crest of the next ridge. The smoke was still visible—not a good sign—making it possible for Yarik to get an azimuth from the ground and saving him the time and energy required to climb a tree.
Five minutes later, he emerged from the woods into a picture postcard. The pristine valley floor boasted a beautiful frozen lake, and was surrounded on three sides by steep evergreen foothills. This was just the type of place Yarik would eventually choose to retire: lots of fish and game, but no people. Somebody else apparently had the same idea, as there was a large cabin on the other side of the lake, situated at the edge of a pebbly shore. The smoke that brought him here was billowing from one of the cabin’s two chimneys.
If I were in Alex’s place, Yarik thought, I would sneak up on the cabin and dispatch the occupant. Then I would wait, sated and warm, seated back behind a curtain with one of the dead hermit’s rifles, watching for me to walk out of the clearing.
Yarik had survived nine bullet wounds in the course of his career. None of them had been bad. In fact, aside from the inconvenience, he had not minded them much at all. There was something romantic about the whole experience. But Yarik could not allow that to happen here. The stakes were too high.
He surveyed the surrounding area thoroughly before beginning a slow circle around the house. He did not see any movement through the back windows, and he could not get a good look in through the front without exposing himself. Nor could he wait around watching for movement. If Alex was not there, he was gaining time. It was maddening. A stalemate. He had to create a third option. He had to provoke a reaction.
Yarik found a large oak that had a view of the front door and concealed himself behind the trunk. He was about eighty meters out and set the Stechkin’s sight accordingly. Keeping the tree trunk between himself and the cabin, he removed his coat and draped it over the forked end of a fallen branch. Then he pushed it up to shoulder height, swayed it back and forth so the movement would catch attention, and waited for the rifle crack. Nothing. He propped it up with a full shoulder and arm exposed. Again nothing. If Alex was watching, he was not taking the bait. Time to up the ante.
Yarik stood up and put his coat back on. Still concealed by the tree trunk, he fired a single shot through the upstairs window where he guessed Alex would be perched, and then switched the Stechkin back to fully automatic. Ten seconds later he heard the front door open. Yarik stole a quick peek at the front porch. Alex had come out holding a rifle. So much for Karpov’s wish to keep him unblemished. Just keeping him alive would be a stretch. Yarik decided to aim for the legs and unload on full auto. It would take less than two seconds for the Stechkin to launch the nineteen remaining rounds.
Yarik spun around, brought his clenched fists to rest on a supporting branch, took quick but careful aim, and . . . it wasn’t Alex. The man was Alex’s height, and he was wearing the same military camouflage jacket as Alex, but the nose was too big and the face was too old.
Yarik dropped his pistol to his side and walked out of the woods.
“Good afternoon,” Yarik said.
“Afternoon . . . ?”
“Are you alone?” Yarik asked, closing in quickly.
“Who’s askin’?” The man still had his rifle pointed skyward, but he looked ready to rock and roll. Anyone living out here would certainly be an expert with his weapon.
“General Yarik, KGB. I am chasing an escaped prisoner. Have you seen anybody lately?”
“Didn’t see him, but he was here not more than twenty minutes ago.” The hermit had the slow-speak of country folk.
“Damn. How do you know he was here?”
“I put some fish out to smoke over the fireplace while I was checkin’ my traps. When I got back them fish was gone.”
“Did he take anything else?”
“That’s what I was checking when I heard the shot. I thought you were him, but I don’t smell the fish on you so I know it wasn’t.”
Yarik ignored the implied insult. “You mind if I get some food while you finish looking?”
The man did not look pleased with the request, which was understandable since Alex had just robbed him of his catch, but he nodded and motioned toward the door.
The hermit had a nice place. The main room was reminiscent of a hunting lodge, full of leather, fur, and hardwood furnishings. Yes, Yarik thought, he had a lot in common with this guy. The man brought Yarik a pitcher of water, a bunch of raw beets, half a spit-roasted hare, and some strips of dried venison. Then he went back to his investigation. Yarik tucked into the food like a man who had run a couple marathons but not eaten for twenty-four hours. All but one beet was gone a couple of minutes later when his host returned.
“As best as I can tell he took a blanket, a canteen, a reel of fishing line, and some hooks—don’t know how he plans to use those without an ice drill, he didn’t get one of those—a hand ax, some old snowshoes, and a couple cigarette lighters.”
“No guns missing?”
“Nope. I keep those locked up, and he didn’t get in. I got the impression he was in a mighty hurry, which was a smart thing ’cause I’d a shot him if I’d a caught him.”
“How close is the nearest town?”
“Depends on what you mean by town.”
“The nearest telephone?”
“Over in Krasnoe, which is about twenty kilometers southeast of here.”
“How far are we from Novosibirsk?”
“A hundred and seventy kilometers.”
“Also southeast, right?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t happen to have a two-way radio, do you?”
“Nope.”
“What would you do if there was an emergency?”
“I’d use Vanya’s two-way. He lives about three kilometers to the north.”
“I didn’t see a road or any kind of vehicle outside. How would you get there? How do you get here?”
The double question seemed to have confused the hermit. “An old service buddy flies me in and out on his seaplane. I spend January t
hrough April with my daughter in Novosibirsk. The rest of the time I’m here.”
Yarik borrowed a pen and paper and wrote a quick note to the regional KGB chief. In it, he ordered a roadblock to be set up on the highway from Krasnoe to Novosibirsk, and any other roads along that vector. He included a description of the American Alexander Ferris posing as the Russian Alexander Grekov. Yarik needed to send a message to Karpov as well. He needed to let him know that somebody was on to the Knyaz. He also wanted to give him Alex’s Peitho code as a precautionary measure. But there was no way to do that without exposing secrets that could never be revealed. To this day, the Knyaz’s power depended on keeping the relationship among its members secret.
“Okay, listen. I have got to continue chasing after the prisoner, so I am heading toward Krasnoe. You have another task to perform for your country. Read through this and make sure you understand it.”
The man took his time reading the note.
Yarik tossed the baseball-sized beet back and forth between his hands while he waited.
At last, the hermit looked up.
“You are to take this to Vanya’s and call it in on this frequency.” He circled the number. “Use my name and they will be most cooperative.”
“But there’s a storm coming in. It’s going to get down to fifty below. Colder in the wind.”
“Well then you better get moving. Take along a bottle and plan to spend the night. And lest you think of turning back before you make that call, you remember that I know where you live.” The man paled. Yarik crushed the beet to a pulp in his palm. A pool of blood-red juice spread over the table. “Now, I need a pair of snowshoes, a sleeping bag, and some more of that venison.”
Chapter 37
