The Moscow Vector c-6

by Robert Ludlum

  “What’s the trouble here?” Pronin demanded grimly.

  “It’s my mother, sir,” the silver-haired man said apologetically. “She’s having trouble with her ticket. She keeps sticking it in the wrong way round.” He turned back to the woman. “Now see what you’ve done, little mother? The militia have come to see what the fuss is about.”

  “Never mind that,” Pronin said brusquely. He reached across the barrier, grabbed the magnetic card from the old woman’s shaking hand, and inserted it himself. The barrier slid aside, allowing her to hobble through, followed soon after by her son. Almost immediately, a horrid odor assailed the militia lieutenant’s nose, a rank, acrid stench that made him gag.

  He stepped back, astonished by the smell. “Good God,” he muttered in shock. “What’s that stink?”

  The other man shrugged sadly. “I’m afraid it’s her bladder,” he confided.

  “She doesn’t have very much control over it these days. I try to get her to change her diaper more often, but she’s very stubborn, you see —much like a little child, really.”

  Disgusted, Pronin waved the trio through his waiting men. So that was what old age could be like, he thought darkly. Then he turned back to survey the crowds, already dismissing the depressing incident from his mind.

  * * *

  Once they were safely outside the Metro station, the old woman painfully made her way over to a bench and sat down. The two men followed her.

  “I swear to God, Oleg,” Fiona Devin muttered crossly to the tall man masquerading as her son. “I’m going to be sick all over myself if I don’t get out of these foul-smelling clothes and all this damned padding … and soon!”

  “I am sorry,” Kirov said ruefully. “But it is necessary.” One of his bushy eyebrow s rose in wry amusement. “On the other hand, my dear, you must admit that a bit of vomit would add a very nice touch of authenticity to your disguise.”

  Leaning hunched over on his cane, Jon Smith tried hard not to laugh. The glued-on theatrical whiskers and wig he was wearing itched abominably, but at least his coat and worn trousers were only stained with machine oil and ground-in dirt and not anything worse. Fiona, swaddled in layers to make her look fat and then stuffed into horribly soiled garments, had it a lot worse.

  Smith noticed other shoppers and pedestrians giving them a wide berth, quickly walking away with wrinkled noses and averted eyes. Even in the open air, the smells emanating from them were still pungent. He nodded. These get-ups, uncomfortable and demeaning though they were, were proving remarkably effective.

  “Come, Fiona,” Kirov urged. “We’re almost there. It’s only a hundred meters or so farther on, just down that next little side street.”

  Still grumbling under her breath, Fiona forced herself back onto her feet, which were stuffed into boots that were at least a size too small for her, and shuffled off in the direction Kirov indicated. Together they hobbled and limped east along the Ulitsa Arbat and turned into an alley lined with small shops selling books, new and used clothing, perfumes, and antiques.

  Patiently, the Russian led them to a narrow door halfway down the alley.

  Next to the door, a dirty window displayed a poorly lit selection of antique samovars, matryoshka dolls, lacquer boxes and bowls, crystal, Soviet-era porcelain, and old lamps. Faded gold lettering above the window read ANTIKVAZ-AVIABARI.

  If anything, the tiny shop behind the door was even more of a jumble, full of items heaped together on dusty shelves and counters without any apparent rhyme or reason. There were replicas of famous religious icons, Red Army belt buckles and fleece-lined fabric tanker’s helmets, gold-plated candle sticks, chipped China tea sets, costume jewelry, and framed and faded Soviet propaganda posters.

  When they came in, the proprietor, a large, ponderous man with just a fringe of curly gray hair around his bald pate, looked up from the cracked teacup he was gluing back together. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of Kirov and he came lumbering around the counter to greet them.

  “Oleg!” he boomed, in a baritone voice that carried the hint of a Georgian accent. “I assume these are the friends of whom you spoke on the phone?”

  Kirov nodded coolly. “They are.” He turned to Fiona and Smith. “And this overfed villain is Lado Iashvili, the self-described bane of Moscow’s legitimate antique dealers.”

  “What the general here says is very true,” Iashvili admitted with a tolerant shrug. He grinned widely, revealing a worn set of tobacco-stained teeth. “But then I have my poor living to make, and they have theirs, eh? We each prosper in our own way.”

  “So I hear,” Kirov agreed.

  “But now to business, correct?” Iashvili said expansively. “Do not worry, Oleg. I think you and your friends will be very pleased by the quality of my merchandise.”

  “Will we?” Fiona said carefully, eyeing the clutter around them with barely concealed disdain.

  Iashvili chuckled. “Ah, Babushka, there you misunderstand the nature of my business.” He waved a dismissive hand at the bric-a-brac scattered around his shop. “These things are largely for show. They are only a hobby, something to deceive the curious policeman or the occasional nosy tax inspector.

  Come! I will show you my true passion!”

  With that, the burly Georgian swung round and ushered them through another door at the back of his shop. It opened into a storeroom piled high with the same mix of genuine antiques and useless junk. Off in the far corner, a steep flight of stairs led down into the basement. This staircase ended at a locked steel door.

  Iashvili unlocked the door and pushed it open with an extravagant, sweeping gesture. “Take a look for yourselves,” he said grandly. “Here you see my studio, the little temple of my art.”

  Smith and Fiona stared around them in wonder. They were standing in a large, brightly lit chamber. It was filled with expensive photography equipment, computers, several different types of color laser printers and photo-copiers, engraving machines, and rack upon rack containing what appeared to be almost every imaginable kind of paper, inks, and chemicals used to artificially age documents. One whole side of the room was set up as a photo studio, complete with different backdrops, a wash basin with soap, shampoos, and towels, and a privacy screen.

  With another broad grin, the Georgian patted himself on the chest.

  “Speaking with all due modesty, of course, I, Lado Iashvili, am the very best in my chosen profession — certainly in Moscow, and perhaps in all of Russia. The general here understands this fact, which is why he has brought you to me.”

  “You are definitely a gifted forger,” Kirov agreed tersely. He shot a glance at Smith and Fiona. “In the old days, the KGB held a monopoly on Iashvili’s rather unique services. But now that he’s branched out into the private sector, he has proved himself quite the entrepreneur.”

  The Georgian nodded matter-of-factly. “I do have a wide range of clients,” he admitted. “Those who would like to leave their unfortunate pasts behind for any number of reasons have learned to rely on me for help.”

  “Including members of the Mafiya?” Fiona guessed. Her face was expressionless, but Smith could hear the anger in her voice. She had no love for anyone who aided members of Moscow’s criminal underworld.

  Iashvili shrugged. “Who knows? It may be so. But I never ask awkward questions of those who pay me.” He smiled drily. “For that, I think you two should be grateful, eh?”

  Fiona looked back at Kirov. “How far can we trust this man?” she asked bluntly.

  The Russian smiled coldly. “Quite far, actually. First, because he is a man whose livelihood depends entirely on his reputation for absolute discretion.

  And second, because he values his own skin.” He turned toward Iashvili. “You know what will happen if news of the work you’re going to do for my friends leaks out?”

  For the first time, the effusive Georgian seemed at a loss for words. His fleshy face turned pale. “You will kill me, Oleg.”

  “So I will, La
do,” Kirov said quietly. “Or, if I could not, there are others who would do it for me. In either case, your death would not be quick. Do you understand me?”

  Iashvili nervously licked his lips. He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I understand.”

  Satisfied, Kirov dumped the canvas duffel bag he was carrying on a nearby table and began quickly removing items from it. Within moments, the table was covered with shoes and sets of clean, stylish clothing in sizes that would fit the two Americans, different-colored wigs and hairpieces, dyes, and a kit containing other items that would help them alter their appearance in any one of several ways.

  “And you still want all of the documents we discussed earlier?” Iashvili asked tentatively, watching the growing piles of clothing and gear through narrowed eyes.

  Kirov nodded. “My friends will need new foreign passports … Swedish, I think. Also, photocopies of appropriate business visas and immigration cards—ones issued at St. Petersburg would probably be best. Plus, they’ll need paperwork confirming their employment by the World Health Organization.

  They’ll also want a set of local identity papers as a fallback, documents with good, solid Russian names on them. Will any of that present a problem?”

  The Georgian shook his head rapidly, beginning to recover his customary poise. “Not a bit,” he promised.

  “How long will you need?”

  Iashvili shrugged. “Three hours. Maybe four at the outside.”

  “And the price?” Kirov asked.

  “One million rubles,” the other man said flatly. “In cash.”

  Smith whistled softly. At the present rate of exchange, that came to more than thirty thousand U.S. dollars. Still, it was probably a fair price for the high-grade forged papers he and Fiona Devin would need if they were stopped at a militia checkpoint.

  Kirov shrugged. “Very well. Half now.” He pulled a large stack of Russian bank notes out of the duffel bag and handed them to Iashvili. “And half later, when the work is finished to my friends’ satisfaction.”

  While the suddenly much-happier Georgian forger took the money upstairs for safekeeping, Kirov spoke quietly to Smith and Fiona. “Join me when Iashvili is done here. The rest of his money is in the bag,” he said. “Ill wait for you in the bar in the Hotel Belgrade, just on this side of the Borodinsky Bridge.” He grinned at them. “With luck, of course, I won’t recognize either of you.”

  “You’re not staying?” Fiona asked in surprise.

  Kirov shook his head regretfully. “I have a rendezvous I must keep,” he explained softly. “A private meeting with another old friend. A man who may have some of the answers we need.”

  “An old friend in uniform?” Smith guessed.

  “Perhaps from time to time, Jon,” the other man agreed with a slight smile.

  “Though senior officers in the Federal Security Service often prefer a simple business suit for social occasions.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was well after ten at night when Smith and Fiona Devin entered the Lobby Bar at the Hotel Belgrade, but the place was still hopping. Men and women in business attire, mostly Russians, though with a scattering of foreigners, occupied most of the booths and tables or stood elbow-to-elbow at the bar. Soft jazz played in the background, but the music was almost completely drowned out by the clamor of loud conversation. Although the Belgrade was a big, boxy hotel without much architectural charm, its convenient location, close to the Metro and the Arbat, and its reasonable prices kept its occupancy rates high even in the winter.

  Oleg Kirov sat by himself in one corner of the noisy room, silently smoking a cigarette. Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the table in front of him. He had a pensive look about him.

  Together, Smith and Fiona made their way over through the crowds. “May we join you?” Jon asked in accented Russian.

  Kirov looked up at them with a grave, welcoming nod. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” He stood up, pulled out a chair for Fiona, and then signaled a waitress to bring fresh glasses. “Shall I ask your names? Or would that be considered rude on so brief an acquaintance?”

  “Not at all,” Smith answered smoothly. He sat down and slid his new Swedish passport across the table. True to his boasts, Iashvili had done superb work. The forged passport looked as though he had carried it around for several years and it included entry and exit stamps for a number of different countries. “I’m Dr. Kalle Strand, an epidemiologist assigned to the World Health Organization.”

  “And my name is Berit Lindkvist,” Fiona said with an impish grin. “Dr.

  Strand’s personal assistant.”

  Kirov arched an eyebrow. “With the emphasis on personal?”

  She wagged a stern finger at him. “Not all Swedes are sex-crazed, Mr.

  Kirov. My relationship with Dr. Strand is strictly business.”

  “I stand corrected, Ms. Lindkvist,” the Russian replied with an answering smile. He sat quietly a while longer, studying their changed appearance.

  Then he nodded. “A good job. It should suffice.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Smith said. He resisted the urge to rub at his eyebrows. A blond wig covered his dark hair, but he’d had to bleach his eyebrows to match and now they were itching like crazy. A pair of cheek inserts broadened his face, and padding around his waist added fifteen or twenty pounds to his apparent weight. And a pair of heavy black-frame eyeglasses with clear lenses should draw attention away from his blue eyes. None of it was very comfortable, but, taken together, the various changes altered his looks enough to give him a decent shot at passing through any militia checkpoint without being spotted.

  Fiona Devin had undergone a similar transformation. She had cut her shoulder-length hair shorter and dyed it a dark red. Heels added an inch to her height while new undergarments changed her figure subtly, but enough so that she seemed a very different woman.

  Jon fell silent while the waitress cleared away the old vodka glasses and replaced them with new ones. Then he asked, “Did your friend in the FSB give you any information worth sharing?”

  “He did,” Kirov said heavily. His eyes were troubled. “First, he confirmed that the manhunt for you was set in motion by orders from the very highest levels of the Kremlin. The militia and Ministry of the Interior units involved have instructions to report directly to Alexei Ivanov.”

  “Ivanov?” Fiona repeated with a frown. “That’s not good.”

  Smith leaned forward. “Who exactly is this Ivanov character?”

  “He’s the head of the FSB’s Thirteenth Directorate,” Kirov told him. “He takes his orders from President Dudarev and no one else. For all practical purposes, his section operates independently of the regular FSB command structure. It is said that his men violate the law and our constitution with total im-punity. And I believe those rumors.”

  Fiona nodded. “The man is ruthless and completely amoral. But he’s also extremely competent.” Her face darkened. “Which leaves me wondering how we managed to escape that first ambush at all. Why murder Vedenskaya on the street and then try to kidnap us using a fake ambulance crew? Win not just call out the militia and have them snap us up?”

  “Because that was not Ivanov’s show,” Kirov said quietly. “At least not completely. My former colleague managed to get a look at the first militia reports of the incident—before the Kremlin ordered a halt to any further investigation.”

  “And?” Smith asked.

  “The militia managed to identify two of the dead men,” Kirov said. ‘Both were former KGB, men who were used chiefly for ‘wet work’ against dissidents and suspected traitors.”

  Smith nodded grimly. “Wet work” was a euphemism for State-sanctioned murder. “You said ‘former’ KGB?”

  “Correct,” Kirov said. “For the past several years, they have been employed by the Brandt Group.” He shrugged. “The same people who tried to eliminate you in Prague.”

  “But Brandt and his thugs work for the highest bidder, not on
their own whim,” Fiona pointed out. “So who was paying the bills to have us kidnapped? The Kremlin, through Ivanov? Or someone else?”

  “That is still unclear,” Kirov admitted. “But my colleague did learn that the ambulance was registered to the Saint Cyril Medical Center.”

  Fiona saw Smith’s questioning look and explained. “The center is a sort of joint Western/Russian teaching hospital set up to improve the standard of health care in this country.” She turned to Kirov. “Was the ambulance stolen?”

  “If so,” the Russian said flatly, “the theft does not seem to have been reported to the authorities.”

  “How very curious,” Smith said drily. “And who funds this medical clinic?”

  “It’s a public-private consortium,” Fiona told him. “Roughly a third of its budget comes from the Ministry of Health. But the rest of its money comes from a network of foreign charities and foundations — ” She stopped abruptly, apparently deep in thought. Then her jaw tightened. She looked up at them in dismay. “Including a very substantial percentage from a foundation controlled by Konstantin Malkovic.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Smith said, contemplating the chain of events over the past two days from a new perspective. An ugly possibility now reared its head, one they could not afford to ignore. He gestured toward Fiona. “Consider this: You tell Malkovic about this disease outbreak and the official cover-up. He says that he’s horrified and promises that he’ll do whatever he can to help you learn the truth. But hey, presto, within just a couple of hours, you’re under close surveillance by a professional tag team. Are you with me so far?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” Smith continued. “You manage to shake the tail, but probably not until after they spot us together at the Patriarch’s Pond. Right then all sorts of alarm bells must have started going off in various places. Later that same night, the Brandt Group swoops in to nail us both. And now it turns out that the ambulance they used just happens to belong to a hospital that gets a ton of money from good old Konstantin Malkovic.”