"They must know over there that we have an important meeting today with our best man in the States," was Zaretskiy's dry response. "They normally would tell us if she were, erm, otherwise occupied. We'll wait another half-hour."
Zaretskiy made several calls to Olga's apartment while they waited, but there was no answer.
When Olga still did not appear, Zaretskiy made his decision. "Stash, you'll have to handle the meeting alone."
He stood and grabbed his coat and hat off the rack by the door. "I'm going to the Embassy."
It took longer than he would have liked to traverse the distance from 17th Street to Georgtown and up Wisconsin Avenue, and he arrived at Karpov's office red-faced and sweating despite the cold outside.
"Valeriy Eduardovich. Something may have happened to Olga Polyanskaya. We waited for her at the office all morning, and I've been unable to contact her. She had an extremely important meeting this morning, and it's very unlike her to be late. "
Karpov furrowed his brow and was silent for a few beats as he considered the possibilities from the most innocent to the worst. Had she overslept? Had she been in an accident? Had the FBI arrested her? Or, worst of all, had she become unreliable?
"Thank you, Valentin Gyorgievich," he said. "I'll try to get to the bottom of it and let you know."
*****
The tears left her empty and exhausted. She wouldn't be going to work, and it mattered hardly at all that today was to have been important. She simply could not face anyone in this condition. What difference did it make anyway? Did all these meetings, gatherings, plans, phony smiles, and empty words mean anything? Did they make it easier to commit murder? Vlad's words struck her like hammer blows. "I can't imagine how much blood you have on your hands."
How much, then? Vlad's mother and father, hundreds of innocent people at the Metro station – and this was what she had only just discovered. How much more had she not guessed? How could she go on? How can a murderer continue living under such a burden? How was it possible that she was guilty of the deaths of hundreds? She had never in her life held a weapon in her hands.
She tried not to think of the families, the terror when they saw the news on television and didn't know the fate of their loved ones but could think only the worst. Olga could only imagine the horrible premonition that must have swept over the relatives of the victims, how they hoped it wasn't true, how they would have tried to contact their loved ones but heard only the empty ring of a cellphone that would never again be answered.
She barely contained a desire to run headlong as far away as she could get. But there was nowhere to run, and she walked aimlessly until she arrived at a small park. When she took in her surroundings, she realized she was facing the White House, and a wave of panic engulfed her. She turned on her heel and rushed away with no idea where she was going.
After what seemed hours, fatigue caught up with her. She ducked into a small coffee shop and collapsed at a table. The place was small with only a dozen or so tables and a lunch bar guarded by a rank of round, backless stools. The flat-screen TV on the wall behind the bar was tuned to a sports channel, and Olga was grateful to be spared more news coverage of yesterday's tragedy.
A middle-aged black woman wearing an apron approached the table and asked what she would like. At first, Olga didn't hear what the woman was saying. The waitress, seeing her despondency, put a hand on her shoulder and said, "Are you OK, darlin'? Can I bring you something, a glass of water?"
The touch on her shoulder startled her, and she looked up with frightened eyes. The kindness and concern on the waitress's face only fed her guilt. Would she look at me this way if she knew …?"
She fled the coffee-shop, leaving the waitress shaking her head.
*****
Valeriy Karpov was seriously concerned by Zaretskiy's news. At least the civilian was clever enough not to have used the telephone thus alerting the FBI. Any mention of Olga's name in connection with his own would have unfortunate consequences.
He had no idea where the girl could be, and the possibilities alarmed him. Their most recent conversation had left a bad taste in his mouth. The girl's shock and confusion were troubling. She was, after all, not a seasoned professional. It might have been best to leave her in the dark regarding the explosion, but the vodka had loosened his tongue, and now she was missing. Could it be that his initial suspicions about her had been correct despite the glowing reports from the Center? The blood froze in his veins as he considered the implications and possible repercussions. The feel of the axe on his neck was palpable.
He pulled a burner cellphone from the pile in his desk drawer and dialed Olga's cellphone. There was no answer. Repeated tries yielded the same result.
Deciding he could wait no longer, Karpov grabbed his coat and left the embassy. What if the girl had become disillusioned and gone to the FBI? Or had she simply forgotten her cellphone at home? Perhaps she had fallen seriously ill or been in an accident. He could not avoid the hope that it had been the latter, and she was dead. From the beginning I knew that such a pampered little girl from Moscow should not be involved in serious matters. The bitterness of his recollection spurred him to move faster. Whatever was going on, it had to be controlled before a disaster occurred.
The only thing he could do was go directly to her apartment, and that would take precious time as he had to be certain he was not followed.
It would be risky to enter the apartment. If the worst came to pass, he could walk into a trap. He decided to wait on the street and found a comfortable spot by the window in a café across opposite the entrance to Olga's building. After what seemed an eternity he saw her approaching unsteadily along the sidewalk. He hurried out of the café to intercept her, scanning carefully in all directions for signs of danger.
"What are you up to?" He grabbed her roughly by the elbow, his alarm lending unnecessary force to his grasp. "Why didn't you go to the office today?"
She jerked her arm away. Her face infused with rage and her voice shaking, she said, "I'll never go to the office again. Not to yours and not to theirs, never! Never. I'm going back to Moscow. I've had enough, and I'm sick of these abominations. I can't take it anymore. I'm finished."
"Hold on." His voice was hard, and he grabbed her arm again. "You can't do that."
"Don't touch me! Take your hands off me or I'll call the police. I never want to see you again, you damned pig, you murderer! It's your entire fault, everything."
Startled by her heat, he stepped back from her. The girl was insane. He adopted a conciliatory tone. "Olga, wait. I see that you're terribly upset, and it really is my fault. You weren't prepared for this. If you really want to go home, I'll arrange it immediately. It will take several hours, but just wait in the apartment, and I'll send someone from the embassy to pick you up. I promise to have you on a plane to Moscow tomorrow."
Olga was not mollified, but what else could she do? She was alone in a foreign land with no friends, no one to help her. At least there would be some comfort in returning home.
She glared at Karpov, the incarnation of her own self-loathing, and merely nodded agreement.
Karpov waited until the door closed behind her and he was satisfied she was going to her apartment. Things had taken a dangerous turn for the worst and required immediate action.
There was no way he could permit Olga to enter the embassy. His mission in Washington and the actions he had taken, especially the Metro bombing, were known to no one else outside the Lubyanka. If he cut her free at an airport teeming with American security personnel, she could do anything.
The Chechens were his only hope.
Chapter 45
Krystal Murphy must have been more tired than she realized because she passed the night in dreamless sleep despite the horrors of the day before. She awoke with a start and it took a moment to remember where she was. This prompted thoughts of Ray Velazquez, which warmed her a bit until her bare feet hit the frigid floor and brought her with an almost audible
thump back to wintry Arlington.
After a long, hot shower she discovered nothing but stale cereal in the pantry and pickles and beer in the refrigerator which she had cleaned out before going to Florida. She decided to grab a pastry and coffee at Starbucks on the way to the office and bundled up for the drive.
She cursed as she swept snow from her old Corolla. Fifteen minutes later she was at her desk where she found numerous notes asking her to contact various media outlets. She immediately dumped them into her wastebasket. She saw no sense in calling people to tell them there was nothing she could say.
She hadn't kept up with the news, having collapsed into bed the night before, so she switched on the television and a bulletin flashing on the screen caught her attention: METRO BOMBERS IDENTIFIED. She turned up the sound in time to hear the talking head say the explosion was definitely a terrorist act. A claim of responsibility had been received from a heretofore unknown organization with the ominous name "Islamist-American Liberation Front."
She recalled Ferguson's comments of the day before and dialed his number at the FBI.
"We're watching the news over here, too," he said. "In each case, a woman speaking American-accented English called the media outlet to claim responsibility. She promised a more detailed written statement soon."
"What do we say to the press?"
"Nothing, if possible; as little as we can, if we must. We've heard the claim of responsibility, but there is no evidence it's real. Like I said yesterday, there are nutcases everywhere, and that's the official line for now."
Outside her window, snow had begun to fall again.
Chapter 46
Curiosity dragged the old man unwillingly, and not without complaint from joints that were becoming stiff with age, to the edge of his property, but there was little to be seen. If this were a training facility for terrorists they were being damned quiet about it. The old farm house was visible from the tree line, and hours of patient watching revealed only a few occupants. Peering at them through his LRB 7 X 40 New Con laser range finder binoculars, he recognized the Russian-speaking man from Costco. There was another man, too, but he saw no sign of the woman.
Just for the sake of prudence, the old man set more perimeter alarms in the tree line above the farm house. Prudence was an important facet of his personality. Prudence kept people alive. For some it could be an excuse for doing nothing, for foregoing risk. Not so for the old man, but he had learned not to rush into things.
His ideas about the North Caucasus and the practitioners of Wahabi Islam there were not exactly politically correct, but it was entirely possible that this was a family group seeking only to escape the violence of their homeland and live in peace. If they were armed, it was likely an expression of well-founded caution and ingrained tradition. When this thought crossed his mind, the old man reminded himself with a curse that he did not believe in rainbows and unicorns.
*****
The first heavy snow arrived in late November. Hunting season was signaled by the annual appearance of camouflaged coveralls on the Valley men as they appeared in local shops or drove their pick-ups loaded with crated bear-hunting dogs that howled along the mountain roads. Bow season came and went quietly, followed by black powder season and finally by an all-out assault on the forest wildlife. The deer population was culled and many black bears did not make it back to their dens for the winter's hibernation. The people of the Valley were not bloodthirsty thrill killers. They depended on game to put meat on the table as much now as they had a hundred years ago.
The old man did not hunt. He had no desire to kill and he posted his own acres against hunting. The occasional black bear that lumbered past the cabin heading down the mountain to forage were objects of admiration rather than targets.
The snow fell from great, dark clouds invading as usual over the low peaks of the Appalachians from the south west, leaving a blanket of white silence over the forest and the Valley floor. Isolation was nearly complete, which suited the old man.
He celebrated the occasion by selecting an especially fine and rare Cuban Hoyo de Monterey double corona from his humidor and appreciatively caressed its tip with a long match. He stood at a window watching Sadie the Lab cavort in the snow outside. Satisfied that the tobacco was burning evenly, he decided a fresh pot of coffee would be a good idea and by the time the pot was brewing, Sadie had decided she wanted back into the warmth of the cabin. She stood quietly as the old man toweled off the snow and wiped her feet then shot into the kitchen and sat, tail thumping the floor, bright eyes fixed on the canister where the doggie treats were stored.
Night had fallen when the dog tensed, alerted by something only she heard. She pricked her ears and cocked her head before emitting a low, prolonged growl. The old man, who had closed his eyes long ago with his head resting against the back of the couch, soaking in the warmth of the fire that crackled in the stone hearth, put a hand on the Lab's head to calm her. An animal, perhaps a deer, had passed close to the house. The dog shook him off and leapt from the sofa to stand by the door where the growl turned into a frantic bark.
Annoyed, the old man rose and went to the door where Sadie continued her disturbance unabated.
Before he could decide whether to pull on some boots and a coat to go out and inspect, there was a weak knock at the door, really more like a scratch, accompanied by a voice. He couldn't make out the words. He flung open the door and a dark-haired young woman, clad much too lightly for the weather, stumbled against him and would have collapsed had he not caught her beneath her arms.
Sadie's barks now turned to solicitous whines, and she followed as her master half carried the visitor to the sofa in front of the fire. She was mumbling something unintelligible through lips turned blue and stiff with the cold. She wore only a nondescript dress with a man's light jacket over it. Her dark hair was wet with snow. On her feet was a pair of sturdy leather shoes several sizes too large for her.
He placed her on the sofa and went to the bedroom to gather a heavy, quilted comforter in which to wrap her and a towel to dry her hair.
His mind was racing. How had she gotten here without setting off one of his perimeter alarms? The answer had to be that the sensors were covered with snow where she had passed them, and he mentally kicked himself for relaxing the entire day when he should have been out checking his security system.
What worried him was that she could have come from only one place -- the old turkey farm downslope. He wasn't sure what this might portend, but he did not think her arrival was a good sign.
He covered the woman's shivering form with the comforter and did his best to dry her hair while she stared at him with large, dark eyes. She was little more than a girl, not at all unattractive and was of no distinctive ethnicity. Any ambiguity in this regard, however, was immediately cleared up when she managed to pronounce her first intelligible words: "Pomogi mnie." Help me, in Russian. That left no doubt where she came from.
Switching to Russian, the old man asked, "Are you lost?"
She raised her eyes to him incredulously. This was a country of miracles where this cadaverous, bearded old man even spoke Russian!
She shrugged the comforter from around her shoulders and grasped the front of his checked flannel shirt. "We must leave now!" A hard light entered her eyes as she said this, but it was followed by a spasm of sobs. "They'll come after me."
This definitely ruined his day. The snow had stopped falling before noon, and the sky was clearing. The girl's tracks through the snow would be easy to follow even in moonlight.
"Slow down," he said, pushing her gently back onto the couch. "Who will come after you? Your friends? Are you lost?" He repeated the question because if she answered yes, things would become much less complicated.
"They are not my friends. They want to kill me."
The damned Wahabis! What the hell were they doing in Virginia?
He may not emerge as the winner in a long stand-off, besieged in his cabin. They had to get away bef
ore that happened.
Options available were limited because of the snow. He doubted he could drive out through it, and that meant that even if he called for help, no one could get up the treacherous mountain roads. But maybe the sturdy Land Rover could make it.
*****
The old man glared through the snow-obscured windshield at the unbroken expanse of white ahead. Even the sure-footed Land Rover was slipping as he drove at a snail's pace down the slope towards the gate at the main road. The deeply rutted trail from the cabin was invisible beneath at least two feet of snow, but he knew the way well.
Before they reached the gate, however, the snow resumed with reinvigorated fury, the wind driving the white stuff horizontally.
They weren't going anywhere.
The old man swore under his breath.
Carefully, he backed the Land Rover up the slope to the cabin. Curse words he hadn't uttered in years shouldered their way to the front of his brain.
The girl was alarmed. "We must leave this place."
"There's no way we're getting out of here for a long while. That's the bad news. The good news is that your friends will have a very hard time getting to us. That means no one will be able to take anyone anywhere until this storm is over."
She stared as if he were some alien creature, this lanky old man with long hair and a patchy white beard covering his cheeks and chin, slitted eyes, and gnarled hands. A man who spoke Russian like a native. A man with a past.
"You won't hand me over to them." It was both a statement and a question
Back at the cabin the generator had cranked to life indicating the power lines were down. The noise of the motor would signal their location. He stepped out of the Land Rover to close the garage doors against the gusting wind, and the dog leapt out after him and darted outside. Between the cabin and the garage she sank into snow already so deep that her head was barely inches above the surface. Apparently considering this to be an insult to her character and race, she barked sharply and plowed ahead toward the cabin door, undoubtedly wishing her master would decide whether he was coming or going.
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