An old man appeared in the doorway of Nami’s home. He was a Russian, short and fat with a crimson vodka nose.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted in a quavering voice thick with phlegm. ‘What do you want? Go away!’ He leaned on the doorway as if the effort of getting there had exhausted him. ‘Are these people another of your charities, Anastaysia? Come inside now before I beat you!’
‘I’m coming,’ Nami said.
‘Anastaysia?’
‘I have not been Nami for many years.’
‘He beats you?’
‘Not for many years also.’
‘Why did he call us “charities”?’
‘I look after people who can’t look after themselves. They will die if I leave.’
‘Kiko,’ Ben called to her. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They do not like strangers in this village, Akiko,’ said Nami. ‘You and your friend must go. I’m sorry.’
She lifted the tub onto her hip and limped to the door of her house. Her husband held the door open for her and then closed it with a bang as she disappeared inside.
‘What’s happening?’ Ben asked.
‘She won’t come with us.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Hang on . . . We have no proof that Nami exists. Nothing! We don’t even have a damn camera.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘If we could get a little of her hair, you know, DNA testing could—’
‘It’s over,’ Akiko said as she walked down the hill, barely able to speak.
Ben followed her downhill, his mind racing. They’d come all this way and, against the odds, they’d found Akiko’s mother. And for what? With her, they could prove what had really happened to KAL 007. The news would bring closure to so many lives, answer so many questions. Curtis had sacrificed his life for this. Without her . . . Why the hell wouldn’t she want to come back? What sort of life did Nami have here in this god-forsaken frozen shit hole that she wouldn’t be desperate to leave it?
As they made their way to the helicopter, Ben could see the disappointment clinging to Akiko like the fog wrapping around her.
They passed the last of the huts and the 412 came into view. Ben stopped. So did Akiko. It was just as they’d left it the day before, except for one significant difference—now it was surrounded by army-style, khaki-green vehicles and armed troops in the same winter blue-on-blue camouflage scheme of the fighter jet.
There was a movement beside him and two armed soldiers stepped around the side of the hut. They shouted and raced toward them. Akiko put her hands on her head. Ben followed her lead, his heart rate soaring.
There was some frantic activity among the Russians around the chopper when they saw that Ben and Akiko had been detained. There was someone inside the machine—Ben could see the movement through the chopper’s perspex windshield, even though it was frosted with snow. The figure jumped out of the machine on the far side and received a report from a subordinate.
The Russians beside Ben were talking to him, making gestures with their weapons that he didn’t comprehend.
‘We can put our hands down,’ said Akiko, lowering hers warily.
Ben’s short, tense breaths steamed in front of his face.
The person from the chopper came into plain view and waved at them. ‘You two are most difficult to keep up with,’ said the officer with a grin as she made her way up the hill, lifting her feet high out of the deep snow.
‘Jesus,’ said Ben. ‘Is no one in this fucking country who they say they are?’
It was Luydmila, only now she was some kind of military officer.
‘Why did you not follow fighter jet yesterday? It would have been easier for all concerned. I was waiting for you at base.’
‘The pilot wasn’t going to shoot us down?’ Ben asked.
Grinning, she said, ‘If he did, he would have been sent to Siberia.’
‘So what are you? Army? Air force?’
‘I am FSB. These three gold stars on each shoulder mean I am colonel.’
Two more green military vehicles drove up along the frozen river, one of them tooting its horn. The lead vehicle skidded to a halt and the passenger door opened. A young uniformed soldier raced up the hill toward the colonel when a fellow soldier pointed out where she was. He arrived in front of her, snapped to attention and saluted, puffing clouds of vapor, and gave his report. Colonel Luydmila Pozlov quietly gave her orders to a subordinate, who then barked at the soldiers in their vicinity.
Ben and Akiko found themselves being hurried toward the nearest hut while the unit deployed. Inside the hut it was cramped, dark and smelled of boiled potato, alcohol and dirt.
‘I think you need to tell us what’s going on,’ said Ben.
‘Korolenko—the man in the photo I showed you, the man who ran Soloyov and Bykovski—it is he who wants to kill you. This much you know—I have already told you. We had information that Korolenko is here. Or, I should say, somewhere out there.’ Luydmila made a gesture that implied a 360-degree arc. ‘My men have just located abandoned FSB vehicles, confirming it. They are nearby.’
‘He’s FSB and you are FSB?’ Akiko asked, unable to hide her confusion.
‘As in any large organisation, there are factions.’ The colonel shrugged. ‘There are people like Korolenko who want a return to the old ways, and there are others like me.’
‘And what do you want?’ Ben asked.
‘A final changing of guard.’
A muffled noise came from outside, and the door opened. An armed soldier brought Nami into the room and then took the colonel aside for a private word.
‘This woman wanted to know where you are being taken,’ said Pozlov when the soldier had finished his report. ‘Do you know her?’
Ben and Akiko glanced at each other, both uncertain now about how much they could trust Luydmila.
The colonel read their concern.
‘I am on your side,’ she said with a hint of exasperation. ‘I think I have proved myself ally, yes?’
Akiko went to Nami and put her arm around her.
‘Your mother?’ Luydmila asked Akiko.
‘Yes.’
‘So you located the person you were searching for?’
Akiko gave her a nod.
‘I commend you, but it would have been better if you had not.’ The colonel took a moment to think through the situation. She then lifted her eyes and peered through the thinning mist at the wooded hills on the far side of the river. ‘Korolenko will be aware that you have found her also. As KGB Fifth Directorate commanding officer in charge of foreign national prisoners, he would have had her transferred here. And he must know that this is his last chance to keep his actions over the years a secret. He will be desperate.’
‘How desperate?’ asked Ben.
‘I have deployed my men to search the surrounding area to ensure that you don’t find out. In the meantime, perhaps you should give me your clothes.’
There was a clear line of sight through the trees to the settlement on the other side of the valley. While the visibility was currently questionable, the fog would lift sooner or later.
‘Are you comfortable?’ Korolenko asked.
‘The reassuring pressure of a telescopic sight’s cup against my eye, all joints locked and frozen in place, lying in my own chilled urine . . . Why wouldn’t I be?’ The shooter stroked the trigger guard of the SV-98 sniper rifle with his index finger to ensure he still had movement in the only piece of his anatomy that he cared about at this time. ‘What do you estimate the wind?’
‘Half a knot right to left.’
The shooter wondered why he’d bothered asking. At this distance, the deflection of the round’s trajectory would be minuscule. ‘What’s going on beyond the chopper?’
Korolenko moved the binoculars to a view of the huts above the river. ‘Occasional sightings of Colonel Pozlov’s men. Nothing to indicate urgency. And you are sure that you can take three targets with co
nfidence?’
‘One male, two females. Standing still or running. From this distance and in these conditions . . . Providing the visibility doesn’t deteriorate? No problem.’
The shooter shifted his view to the chopper itself. It reminded him of the old UH-1—the Huey. It made him feel vaguely nostalgic. ‘I’ve been thinking . . . I could take out the rotor head when the chopper’s about adjacent to our position here. It’ll turn on its side and hit the ground hard. A fuel fire would almost certainly result. Might be a better plan.’
‘I will leave the practical details to you,’ said Korolenko. ‘You’re the expert.’
‘Yes, I am.’
The shooter wasn’t familiar with the Russian SV-98 sniper rifle, though he had taken the time to sight the weapon in the previous afternoon when they were still at Babushka, the town on the far side of the lake. Nevertheless, the rifle didn’t feel right. The proportions and the weight were unfamiliar. It was a reasonable piece of equipment, but what he wouldn’t give for an M107. A single .50 caliber round from an M107 pumped into that chopper’s engine would turn its insides into metal slurry. He could wait until it had 500 feet of altitude before taking the shot. There’d be no survivors. Job done. And watching that big old bird spiral into the ground would be a spectacle.
‘Okay, there is movement,’ said Korolenko.
‘Where?’
The magnification of the telescopic sight was easily powerful enough to pick out even the dust on the rivets in the chopper’s aluminum skin. But with the magnification came a narrow field of vision. The bigger picture was the responsibility of the spotter who in this instance was Korolenko.
‘Fifty feet high, fifty feet to the right,’ the Russian said.
‘Keep me informed,’ the sniper whispered, nuzzling the rifle’s stock against his cheek.
‘I have Colonel Pozlov, the subjects, plus four providing escort. They are walking to the chopper. You will have them in less than thirty seconds.’
The shooter waited, concentrating on his breathing. Three clean shots coming up. Bodies, arms and legs filled the circle of his telescopic sight—five in uniform, three civilians. Of the civilians, one was male and tall, two were of slight build. They were all layered up with clothing against the cold, including their heads.
‘I can confirm the identity of the three civilians. They are our subjects,’ Korolenko whispered. ‘You are cleared to fire.’
The shooter moved the crosshairs from the colonel to the male civilian, and slid his finger off the guard and onto the metal fang of the trigger itself. He let it take the weight of the firing mechanism, applying pressure to it gradually and then maintaining it at about three pounds of pressure. Another half a pound, an exhaled breath, and the rifle would jump on its bipod, the stock punching into the muscle above his collarbone.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he whispered as the targets moved into a slightly better position. ‘Come to papa . . .’
He waited, willing the heads of his victims to bunch into a tighter group. The male target turned toward the chopper, giving him a good look at his face.
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ said the shooter, realizing that something was wrong. ‘The male civilian here isn’t supposed to be Asian. But this guy is—’
Sudden automatic rifle fire exploded behind them. The unexpected noise made the shooter start and the rifle jumped, thumping into his shoulder. He’d inadvertently squeezed the trigger. The round kicked up a small flare of snow on the hill behind the head of the male target. And now people were running everywhere. He couldn’t get off another shot. More automatic fire. There was shouting. Korolenko was on his feet. They were instantly surrounded by FSB men who charged into the clearing, shouting, pushing. One of them kicked the rifle off its bipod.
‘What the fuck,’ said the shooter, getting to his knees.
An FSB soldier with a signaling pistol fired it into the air. A red flare soared out over the trees, away from the helicopter and the settlement below.
‘Order your men to drop their weapons,’ the shooter yelled at Korolenko.
‘These are not my men. It won’t do any good.’
‘Where are your men? Order them to counterattack.’
‘They won’t.’
Colonel Pozlov strode into the area, snapping out orders. Four soldiers raced forward and searched the two captured men, while two more secured the weapons and ammunition. Ben, Akiko and Nami were escorted into the area.
‘Colonel, how nice to see you,’ said Korolenko, standing. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement here, don’t you think?’
‘Your two friends Bykovski and Soloyov killed a friend of mine, retired General Korolenko. There will be no arrangements—not with me—though I am sure someone will be happy to make them for you at Lefortovo.’ The truth of what she had just said seemed to give the colonel pause. ‘And that, perhaps, is a problem.’
Pozlov stepped across to one of her men, relieved him of his rifle, shouldered the weapon and fired it into Korolenko’s solar plexus at point-blank range. The full metal jacket went through him as if he were no more substantial than the mist still blanketing ravines among the hills.
Korolenko looked down at the black smoking hole in his coat like a man checking a spot on his tie, and brushed it with a gloved hand. Blood began pouring down the back of his pants and quickly pooled in the snow around the heels of his boots. He appeared to want to speak, but no words came out. He fell forward into the snow face first, his hands by his sides.
Nami walked up to the body and spat on it, shaking with rage, her hands clenched into fists beside her face.
The colonel turned to Ben. ‘My debt to you is now paid in full. Do not come back to Russia,’ she warned him. ‘We might not be so friendly toward you next time.’
She circled the sniper. ‘And who might you be?’
‘I don’t speak Russian, lady,’ the man said in a steady voice, defiant.
‘You may call me Colonel. American?’
‘Eat my dick, Colonel.’
‘Passport,’ Pozlov snapped.
The foreigner just smiled at her. Pozlov motioned to a subordinate who pulled the American to his feet and searched him. A moment later, the colonel had the document she wanted.
‘I see you are a diplomat,’ she said. ‘An American.’
The man shrugged as the colonel flicked through the pages.
‘Mr Henry L. Buck.’ Her eyes flicked to Hank. ‘Tell me, why are you shooting at people in my country with a sniper rifle?’
The American smiled again.
‘What was your relationship to Korolenko?’
Hank gave her nothing.
‘There are many questions and I think you have all the answers.’
‘Let me guess. You have ways of making me talk,’ said Hank.
It was Colonel Pozlov’s turn to smile.
The entire settlement turned out to watch the departure, the silent crowd lining the top of the embankment and looking down on the chopper, the FSB contingent, Ben and Akiko. It seemed that they were enjoying more entertainment than they’d experienced in a very long time.
Ben was done pre-flighting the chopper. He’d been provided with lat and long coordinates for the nearest Russian Air Force base as well as clearances to take off and land. Colonel Pozlov was going to come along for the ride and smooth the way for a rapid departure from Russia.
His countryman, Hank Buck, was sitting handcuffed in the back of one of the khaki vehicles. The man was to be taken back to Moscow by the colonel’s subordinates for debriefing, before being released to the US embassy. The laws he’d broken included attempted murder, being in possession of a banned weapon, and consorting with a personal enemy of Colonel Pozlov’s. She said that there would be a report released to Buck’s people at the embassy, as well as to Reuters in the event that the US State Department attempted to hush things up. The man would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and Ben was looking forward to hearing what he might know.
‘We’ve got a good break in the weather,’ Ben said to Pozlov. ‘We should use it.’
Akiko searched the crowd on the embankment. An old woman made her way to the front and then walked down to meet her daughter.
‘We are going now, Mother.’
‘Let me hold you one more time, Akiko,’ Nami said.
The two women embraced and Akiko whispered, ‘Please change your mind. Come back with us.’
Nami took her hand. ‘I want to, but there are sick people here who would have no one else.’
‘But you must.’
‘Little Kimba . . . I can’t.’
Akiko looked into Nami’s eyes and saw that her mother was resolute. ‘Then I will come back here to you,’ she whispered.
The two women embraced again.
‘Could you please do me a favor?’ Nami asked.
‘Of course, Mother.’
Nami turned toward the crowd and gestured at someone to join her. An old man. He was frail with a weather-beaten, unshaved face, dressed in shades of black like everyone else in the village. A worn black ushanka was pushed down on his head. He stepped forward and made his way down the bank, crabbing carefully sideways in the loose snow. When he drew near, Nami took hold of his arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The man’s eyes slid left and right. He seemed confused and frightened as if he didn’t know where he was.
‘Could you please take this man with you, back to America?’ she asked.
Akiko looked the man up and down. ‘Yes, if that is your wish. Who is he?’
‘His name is McDonald. Congressman Lawrence McDonald.’
February 19, 2012
Sheraton Hotel, Seventh Avenue, New York City, New York. Roy Garret realized where he was. This was the very hotel where the flight crew—Captain Chun Byung-in, First Officer Sohn Dong-hwin and Flight Engineer Kim Eui-dong—had begun their long journey all those years ago. He wondered what had jolted his memory. They certainly hadn’t conducted the briefing in the Presidential Suite up here on the twenty-first floor. He tried to recall that day as he took another mouthful of Glenfiddich and looked down on Seventh Avenue. A child had been hit by a cab, as he remembered, its mother dropping her shopping in the middle of the road and running to the kid. The memory was so vivid, it was like it had happened yesterday rather than twenty-nine years ago.
The Zero Option Page 49
