by Mark Terry
Erica said, “Bolshoi Devyatinsky Pereulok.”
“Sorry I asked.”
She grinned. “Finding the language confusing?”
“Yes. And about eighty percent of the signage is in Cyrillic.”
“Learn the alphabet. You’ll have plenty of time on the plane to Siberia. It’ll help.”
“Freeze that,” Derek said, pointing.
Maggie did.
“Can you blow it up?”
She manipulated the digital image. Erica said, “What are you looking at?”
A man ran down the sidewalk alongside the brick wall that surrounded the compound. There were cars parked at the curve. The figure was just coming into view on the far right monitor. “That’s Yassen. I’m pretty sure he’s FSB.”
A moment later two cars pulled past him. Both were Mercedes SUVs. Both stopped. The driver in the second car jumped out and sprinted to the first car, which quickly sped away. Yassen rushed toward the car, hands raised.
The abandoned Mercedes erupted into flame. Yassen was knocked to the pavement. He struggled to his feet, then dropped back to the pavement, hand to his throat.
A couple people in the vicinity ran to help, but were quickly overcome by the gas.
“Acts quick,” Derek muttered. They continued to watch. By the digital readout in one corner they saw six minutes go by, then a fire truck appeared. “Not bad,” Derek said.
Derek and Erica appeared on one corner of the screen a moment later, and then disappeared again.
“Can we go back to when Yassen appears on the screen and follow him back, see where he came from?”
Maggie continued to jab at the keyboard, hammering at the keys as if she were trying to kill each one. Yassen’s image began running backwards to the edge of the monitor. Maggie pounded a key and another camera angle appeared on one of the monitors. They followed Yassen down the block, from surveillance camera to surveillance camera.
“We’re getting to the edge of our surveillance network,” Hall said.
“Got it,” Maggie said.
In reverse, Yassen backed into an Audi, then the car pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared off screen.
“Okay,” Derek said. “In forward motion. Let’s see if we can sync the times.”
Maggie hammered away at the keys. Derek wondered how many keyboards she went through a year, or if she was just pissed off by today’s attack.
Erica tapped Maggie on the shoulder. “Run them simultaneously, with the one focusing on Yassen and the other on the cars. Can you do that?”
Concentration burning across her face, Maggie played with the keyboards, then shifted over to a trackball. After a minute she said, “Now” and clicked a key.
On two screens they watched the action. “Hmmm,” Derek said. “Yassen was running behind them.”
“Maybe following them, surveillance,” Maggie agreed.
Hall rested a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “How certain are you that Yassen is FSB?”
He shrugged. “Don’t really know.”
“Okay. We’re going to work this. Your job is to see if there’s a connection between today’s attack and Dr. McGill’s death.” Hall nodded to Erica. “Keep me up-to-date.”
Erica said to Derek, “I can get a driver to take you back to your hotel. Our flight is four o’clock this afternoon to Novosibirsk.”
“I need whatever files you have on McGill.”
“I can do better than that. We have all his belongings.”
Erica led him deep into the basement of the embassy, past several levels of security. “This is my office,” she said. “Have a seat.” She disappeared down the hall.
It was a perfect cube, Derek thought, about eight feet square and eight feet high. A single desk with a computer on it. A safe. No filing cabinet. No papers anywhere in sight. Probably in the safe.
A nesting doll sat one corner of the desk. Derek wanted to crack it open and see what was inside, but controlled the impulse. A snow globe of St. Basil’s Cathedral on the other. Derek sat in the chair in front of her desk, picked up the snow globe and shook it, watching the blizzard swirl around the multi-colored onion domes.
On a table was a TV. Sad and odd, but intelligence agents of every country around the world regularly tuned in to CNN to get a baseline of information. On a bookshelf in one corner were textbooks about Russia, about half of them written in Russian. Petrostate: Putin, Power, and the New Russia; Putin’s Russia: Life in a Failing Democracy; The New Cold War: Putin’s Russia and the Threat to the West.
On the shelves were also several Russian icons, a little bronze Buddha, and a photograph of Erica with four other people. He studied the photograph, guessing it was of her parents and two siblings, a brother and a sister. The sister looked a lot like her, dark hair, heart-shaped face, tall. The brother was big and burly and had lighter hair, but the chin looked the same.
Erica came in with two cardboard boxes and a suitcase on a dolly. She had also brought two cups of coffee. “Mom and Dad, Bill and Jane. Haven’t seen them in a couple years.”
“Where do they live?”
“Mom and Dad in Florida, Bill’s in Afghanistan, and Jane’s in Virginia.”
“Where in Florida? My parents live part of the year in Jacksonville.”
“Tampa. Where do they live the rest of the year? Someplace cold?”
“They travel a lot,” he said. “Missionary doctors. What’s your brother doing in Afghanistan?”
“Oddly enough, he works for the State Department as a physician. He takes care of embassy employees.”
“My brother is with Doctors Without Borders. He’s in Congo.”
“All in all,” Erica said, “I’d take Afghanistan over Congo, given the choice.”
“I’ve been to both. It’s a toss-up.” Derek nodded. “Buddha and Christian icons?”
“Christian religion, Buddhist philosophy,” she said with a shrug. “Or something.”
He looked at the cardboard box, reached over and pulled back the flaps. “This everything?”
“Probably not. The Novosibirsk police were the first called in and they treated it as a suicide and confiscated everything. Then the FSB swooped in and we requested everything but it took a couple days to get this.”
“What about the body? It’s only been a week.”
“They did an autopsy in Novosibirsk then shipped the body to McGill’s family in Georgia.”
Derek gestured to the suitcase and the boxes. “But not everything went back. Why here and not confiscated by the FBI?”
“There was a fair amount of argument about whether he committed suicide or not and whether it meant anything. Jim Hall asked that the belongings be delayed while McGill’s death was looked into.”
“Who looked into it?”
Erica smiled. “You.”
“Uh—”
“It was low priority. Fran Meyers catalogued the belongings.”
Derek opened one of the boxes. It contained an iPhone, a charger, a digital camera, a laptop computer, a wallet, a passport, an English-Russian dictionary and two paperback novels. “Did anyone go over the computer and the iPhone?”
“Fran did, but I don’t know how much time she spent on it.”
Derek nodded and moved to the other box. It was all clothing. Jeans, underwear, socks, dress shirts, slacks, two ties, a sport coat, two sweatshirts, a parka, gloves, and stocking cap. He went through them carefully, checked all the pockets and ran his hand over all the material.
“Looking for something in particular?” Erica asked, watching him.
Derek shrugged. “Just being thorough.”
He turned to the suitcase, which was a black American Tourister travel suitcase, the kind with a collapsible handle and wheels. The tag was filled out. Derek checked the tag and inside it and unzipped all the pockets before opening it. Empty.
“Okay,” he said. He picked up the digital camera. It was a Canon SLR. He powered it up and looked in the memory. Nothing. Checking, he noted there wa
s no memory card. “Is there an inventory?”
Erica found the inventory and handed it to him. “Hmm, no memory card. I wonder if the FSB or the local militia took it. I doubt he was running it without one.”
Setting the camera aside he flipped open the laptop and powered it on. It was password protected. “Nobody’s gotten into this thing?”
“I’ll ask Fran.”
Derek studied the iPhone. Turning it on, he realized it was password protected as well. Erica said, “Nobody’s bothered to look at the phone yet.”
Cocking an eyebrow at her, he slid the unlock toggle and tapped emergency call, then double-tapped the home button. Still didn’t work. “Do you know his cell phone number?”
She rummaged through a file and came up with it. He tapped emergency call again and dialed *#301#. A moment later the phone rang, a jazz piano riff. He hit the X button and deleted the number. He manipulated the keyboard a few more times, then clicked the Home button. The contacts page came up.
“That’s interesting. How’d you do that?”
Derek grinned. “I have skills.”
He scrolled down. “We’ll still need to get into it. A call or text or email history would be nice.”
She sat down and slid over a file. “An update on things in Novosibirsk.”
He glanced at his watch. “Flight’s at 4:00?”
“I’ll pick you up at 1:30. I’ll have a driver take you back to your hotel. Are you going to go see your son?”
He ignored the question. “Siberia’s a long ways a way and there’s already an inspection team there. Meanwhile, somebody blew up a chemical weapon outside the U.S. Embassy here.”
“It’s cold in Novosibirsk,” she said with a grin. “Dress warm.”
He shook his head. “Fucking Siberia.”
8
Commander Pietr Titov did not like to walk, even when he was ordered to. After discussing the Derek Stillwater problem with Konstantin, he sent a secure text to Z that said, “We need to talk.”
His responding text had told him to walk from Lubyanka eight blocks south, turn right for two blocks and wait.
But Pietr Titov took his car and drove the distance, found a parking spot, heaved his bulk out of the car and waited where he had been instructed. Five minutes later a black limousine slid alongside and he climbed into the back. Two men sat across from him. One was Yakov Shos, the titular head of the Red Hand. Titov had known Shos briefly when he was with the FSB years ago, knew him as a vicious thug who had left in disgrace and joined the Bratva.
The other man was another matter. He was Colonel General Valery Zukhov, head of the Moscow Military District. Although many people in the Red Hand believed Shos was the man in charge, in reality the Red Hand was Zukhov’s child. Zukhov was a political animal with ambitions, a man who regularly challenged the Duma, the president and prime minister, and was believed to soon become the Russian Minister of Defense.
“Commander,” Zukhov said. “You insisted on this meeting. And you drove, I see. The garage will know you took a vehicle.”
“It would be significantly more remarkable if they saw me out for a stroll across Lubyanka Square, now, wouldn’t it?”
Shos grunted in derision, but Zukhov merely nodded. “What is the problem?”
Titov laid out his concerns about the American, Derek Stillwater, his presence at the embassy bombing, the likelihood that he had collected evidence of the source of the bomb. Zukhov shrugged. “So?”
“So, we should do something about him. He’s a terrible risk.”
“He is one man. I am more concerned about Nikitinov and his special investigation.”
“I have made sure it goes nowhere. But Stillwater, he’s—”
Zukhov waited.
“He was at the G8.”
“Ah,” Zukhov said. “Da. I remember now. He was very lucky then. I think you worry too much.”
“No. No, General, I don’t. The man’s a menace. If you don’t do something about him, I will. Don’t let him start being the American cowboy in this. He’s trouble. He’s resourceful. We’re at a very—”
Zukhov raised his hand. “I’ll take care of him.”
Titov, sweat beading his high forehead, said, “You will?”
“Da. I will have this particular pawn removed from the board. There is someone in the city who can handle him.”
“He is very resourceful. Whoever you get has to be good.”
“He is, Pietr. Don’t worry about it.”
Titov looked at Shos. “You? Are you going after Stillwater?”
The Russian thug shook his head. “Grechko.”
Titov’s eyes grew wide. “The Gekko is in Moscow?”
With a nod, General Zukhov said, “We’ll have this taken care of immediately.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Titov said, “Thank you.”
Zukhov patted Titov’s broad thigh. “You worry too much, my friend. But for you, I will do this favor. The Gekko will take care of Stillwater.” The General tapped on the dividing glass and directed the driver to return Titov to his car.
After they dropped Titov off and pulled away, Zukhov fished out a cell phone and dialed a number. “Dmitri? I have a job for you to do. Please make contact with our lizard friend. I have two jobs for him to do. One is an American, a Dr. Derek Stillwater. He may take care of him any way he wishes. The other is Commander Pietr Titov with the FSB. He must make it look like natural causes. As soon as possible. I will have dossiers immediately sent to his blind account.”
He clicked off and settled into his seat, shaking his big pockmarked head. “Loose ends, Yakov. And so close to the end.”
“It was only a matter of time. Titov was becoming a liability.”
“Ah, but this American. What do you think?”
Shos shrugged. “What’s one more American? Kill them all.”
Running a hand through his steel-gray hair, Zukhov grinned. “In time, my friend. In time.”
Derek’s driver was a taciturn staffer that looked about twenty years old. Derek guessed he was some sort of embassy flunky fresh out of his undergrad or grad school program in international relations hired to write reports about farm subsidies in northern Siberia. The entire time he drove Derek he was plugged into an iPod, white earbud cords disappearing into his parka.
Stepping out in front of the Golden Ring Hotel, Derek waved at the driver, then stood out in the bitter cold watching traffic go by. One car in particular interested him. It was a black Mercedes that he thought had been behind them since leaving the embassy. Granted, it wasn’t that far away, traffic was heavy, and a disconcerting number of the cars were black BMWs or Mercedes, but he thought he had a tail.
The car sped down Smolenskaya Street. The driver turned his head away as he passed, making it difficult for Derek to identify him. Difficult, but not impossible. Balding, beard. Derek was fairly confident the driver was his old buddy from yesterday. Noting the license plate as it sped past, Derek mulled over his options.
Going inside he ordered some food from room service and retreated to his hotel room to take a hot shower and pack. Ninety minutes later he dropped his backpack with the concierge.
“Are you checking out, sir?” he asked, eyeing Derek’s backpack.
“Very soon. I have a couple things to do first, but I’ve essentially checked out of the room.”
“How was your stay?”
“Very eventful.”
“The bombing, sir. Very terrible.”
“Yes.”
“They say many have died.”
Derek nodded.
“I am very sorry, sir, on behalf of my country.”
Derek cocked his head. “No apology necessary. You didn’t set the bomb … did you?”
The concierge’s eyes opened wide. “No, sir. But you are American and this was an attack on Americans. Yes?”
“It seems to have killed more Russians then Americans,” Derek said slowly. “But terrorists aren’t very discriminating.”<
br />
“No sir. Shall I call your taxi?”
“Not yet.”
Derek went to the front windows and surveyed the cars parked along Smolenskaya Street. He narrowed his surveillance down to three possibilities. He ran up the stairs and looked from a hallway window, getting a different perspective, checking as many angles of the hotel as he possibly could.
Satisfied, he found the hotel’s fitness center. There was only one person using it, and he was walking along on a treadmill, earphones over his ears, staring blankly at a TV, sweat pouring down his forehead. It was a nicely equipped gym with plenty of the latest equipment, but it also had free weights. He picked up an eight-pound dumbbell, tucked it under his jacket, and walked out. The walker didn’t pay any attention.
Derek slipped out a side entrance, slowly scanning the street, and walked around the corner. Thirty yards back he could see the Mercedes and confirmed it was the car he had seen drive past.
Creeping forward in the driver’s blind spot, Derek slammed the dumbbell against the window. It shattered into a million cubes of safety glass. The driver shouted, swearing.
Derek dropped the dumbbell, reached through the window, grabbed the Russian by his heavy wool coat and dragged him protesting through the window, pulling the coat up and over his head. He pulled the gun off the man’s hip. He had just a moment to think, That’s a weird gun, before he jabbed the small revolver against the side of the Russian’s head.
“You’re going to put your hands on the steering wheel. I’m going to open the back door and get in behind you. If you do anything else, I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Understand?”
“Yes,” the Russian said in English.
Derek slipped into the back seat. “What is your name?”
“Konstantin Nikitinov.” The man spoke calmly, perhaps a bit ruefully. He was not afraid.
“Who do you work for?”
“FSB. You understand, FSB? You understand by assaulting me you have grabbed a tiger by the tail?”
“Yes. What do you do there?”
Konstantin grunted. It may have been a laugh, but Derek wasn’t completely sure. “I am you.”
Derek clenched his teeth, clutching the gun in his fist. Now that he had a chance to actually see the gun, it looked even weirder, almost like a toy. It was a revolver with a wood grip and a very short barrel. It was a revolver, but it had a safety and a laser site.
