Down at the Metro he glimpsed a clock which indicated it was quarter to midnight. He dug enough loose change from his pockets to pay the fare.
He thought only of Nina. As he sat in the empty compartment, the din of the rushing train lulled him into viewing a horror reel of her death that his mind projected.
Nina’s words echoed in his head.
A cousin. Michelle.
Who on earth was she?
Fatigue crushing him, Constantine made it to Hotel Ukraina. His keys had also been stolen but, reaching his floor, he saw that he would not need them. Someone had left the door to his apartment wide open.
9
CONSTANTINE CLENCHED HIS FISTS as he crossed the threshold, bracing himself for a fight. He flicked the lights on, waiting for a sudden sound or motion but any intruder had long gone. He did not encounter the effects of a ravaging search—but his laptop was missing. He checked his money cache but it had vanished as well. Everything else seemed in order. The burglar had known exactly what to look for, and where. Constantine had no doubt that whoever had done it was also responsible for Nina’s death. A knot tightened in his chest. Nina had been killed in a terrorist attack and he had been mugged, the incidents intentionally separated, all traces of contact between Constantine and Nina erased. Even the break-in served as a not-so-subtle warning to back off or else his body would end up in a gutter in the South-West of Moscow following a robbery gone really bad. Someone had made a point of demonstrating the control they commanded over his life.
Through the window, the white building of the Russian Government stood bathed in blue radiance shining through the night. Constantine thought of his father. He had missed him dearly over the years, but never as much as he did now. The only person who had truly known the Sokolov family secret that Nina had died for. So many things he’d ask his father about now, if only he could.
Automatically, he started packing his clothes. He knew that he was on the run again.
Minutes later he was ready to go, carrying his few possessions in a travel bag. On the way out, he remembered something.
He went back into the living room and opened the drawer in the wall cabinet.
The burgundy case containing his Gold Star wasn’t there.
Very well, he thought, his suspicions confirmed. Good riddance.
10
CONSTANTINE WALKED SEVERAL BLOCKS in the cold, desolate night to the Presnya district where his brother lived in a 1950’s building. He took the elevator to the seventh floor and pressed the buzzer next to Eugene’s door. He turned the handle but the door was locked. Constantine sank to the floor and waited. The back of his head throbbed and he felt drowsy. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Eugene stepped out of the elevator.
“What happened?” Eugene asked with concern.
“I was there,” Constantine replied, getting to his feet. “I was on the Arbat when the bomb went off.”
“Dear God.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past two.”
“A long day. And we still have a long night ahead.”
They proceeded to the kitchen where Eugene made tea while Constantine recounted the events. Eugene listened like an expert psychologist, opening the floodgates of Constantine’s burdened mind. His brother’s expression grew stern as he mentioned the connection between the EMERCOM bombing and Nina. After Constantine had finished his story, up to his departure from Hotel Ukraina, Eugene told him more about the Arbat attack.
“I remember Nina. Such a lovely girl, she always cared for you. The FSB want to put the blame for the Arbat bombing on her. They won’t disclose the details yet, but word is that there was a female shahid who detonated a bomb belt on the balcony.”
“That’s impossible,” Constantine said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What are they up to, a cover-up?”
“I just came back from a chat with the Minister. He believes that Frolov is putting pressure on the Acting President to reshuffle EMERCOM. The timing of the blasts could hardly be worse for Klimov.”
Constantine was lost in thought for a moment.
“Whoever launched the attacks had enough power to tap in on my phone conversation with Nina. In less than an hour they were ready to blow up any street in Moscow to stop her from revealing her discovery.”
“But it means they also know about Michelle.”
11
AGAINST AN OVERCAST SKY, the distinctive shape of Moscow University’s main building resembled a pagan temple, a twentieth-century Angkor Wat with a pentagram-topped spire. The first and largest structure of the Seven Sisters invaded Constantine’s vision with its dominant, 240-meter-tall presence.
Nina’s death took over his mind. He had first kissed her in front of the university tower, and the bomb blast had killed her before its younger sibling. Stalin’s shrines, erected by gulag inmates, seemed to demand human sacrifice. Constantine’s mood grew as morbid as the gathering clouds.
The campus at Lenin Hills also had more than a hundred other facilities strewn around the main juggernaut, from labs and libraries to a baseball ground. Constantine had spent most of his college days at the Humanities building which housed the Faculty of History, located a few hundred meters behind the Institute of Nuclear Physics. Revisiting his alma mater was always going to evoke painful memories. His academic search for truth about the country’s past had crashed against propaganda and corruption. Marxist dogma still reigned over the curriculum long after the fall of communism. As a result, he did not take great satisfaction in his degree. Although he appreciated the professional skills he’d acquired, he had ultimately abandoned historical science in favor of his newfound interest in theology. Given a choice, he’d never set foot in Lenin Hills again. But he had none, and he needed to act quickly.
Alongside the alleys, scores of lilacs, rowan and apple trees were scattering their gold and crimson leafage. On his way to the Humanities section, Constantine saw an elderly man dressed in a long beige coat walking in the opposite direction. Short, corpulent, he had a square face, a receding mane of white hair, and wore a pencil mustache and brown tinted eyeglasses. He was clutching a battered leather briefcase. At eighty, he was the picture of health, his gait lively. The old man’s name was Leonid Osipovich Fisenko. Finding him was the only reason Constantine was there.
Constantine disliked Fisenko. He epitomized the education system that Constantine had grown disillusioned with. Professor Leonid Fisenko was one of the most respected historians in the scientific community. Among the students, however, he was one of the most reviled. A specialist in twentieth century history, he still glorified the Communist Party, twisting the facts to suit his agenda. He had also gained notoriety for squeezing bribes in exchange for top grades. Yet he feared neither ill fame nor exposure. Fisenko’s lack of integrity could not undermine his position at Moscow University; he was a small fish in a big pond that stank from top to bottom. The university hierarchy was complicit in all sorts of malfeasance from cronyism to embezzlement. Everyone turned a blind eye on each other’s dirty little deeds. One could argue that Fisenko merely served as a small cog in a venal mechanism which ran far beyond Lenin Hills, although Constantine believed that the likes of Fisenko made it function in the first place.
Leonid Fisenko: a devout communist, an extortionist, but also Nina’s scientific adviser.
Constantine strode over to the other side of the walkway.
“Professor!” he called.
Fisenko did not react.
“Leonid Osipovich!” Constantine insisted.
Fisenko glanced at him but marched on, forcing Constantine to follow beside him.
“What do you need, young man?”
“Do you remember me, Professor?”
“Ah … Constantine? I do remember you. However, you’re wasting your time, and mine. Word travels fast. There’s nothing even I can do to help you obtain a teaching role here. You’re persona non grata. The order came all the way from the top.”
“I�
�m not going to ask for any favors and it’s not about me anyway.”
“In that case, we have nothing to talk about. I’m in a hurry, I have papers to check.”
“Nina Lanskaya. Do you remember her as well, Professor?”
The old man hesitated. “Yes. A fine student.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“Try attending the next alumni reunion party.”
“She’s dead.”
Fisenko halted and peered at him over the tinted spectacles.
“What? What did you say?”
“Nina was killed yesterday.”
Constantine didn’t want to mention the Arbat bombing.
The professor scowled and shook his head.
“How horrible …” His voice lowered to a murmur. “I told her to stay out of it but she wouldn’t listen.”
12
FROM A TOPDOWN PERSPECTIVE, the university tower appeared as an H-shaped ensemble. Each of the four wings connected to twelve-story residential blocks which accommodated the teaching staff. Fisenko led Constantine to the building’s southwestern annex, known as Block K.
Constantine could not imagine living there. A bastion adjacent to the soaring Art Deco fortress, it was just as imposing. Again, he felt as petty as an ant. Made from oak, the huge, four-meter-high door compounded the effect.
Behind the outward Soviet grandeur, Constantine discovered peeling yellow paint and grimy stone flooring in the lobby. A narrow elevator lumbered to the tenth floor where Fisenko lived. The professor unlocked his apartment door and ushered Constantine inside, straight into his study.
Constantine looked around. The apartment was well-kept, with neat, white wallpaper, aged parquet and freshly-painted ceilings. The sturdy wooden furniture seemed unchanged from the 1950’s, as did the doors and windows. Books occupied every surface in the study—the shelves, the bureau, the desk around an LCD monitor and a printer, even the window sill, stacked next to a potted cactus. Volumes of paper, old and new, combined to permeate the air with a faint cellulose scent.
Constantine quickly scanned the book titles on the desk. To his surprise, he recognized a few as being highly unfavorable towards Fisenko’s idol, Joseph Stalin.
Fisenko opened a walnut cabinet and produced a bottle of cognac and two snifters.
“Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Fisenko set one snifter aside, poured a shot of cognac for himself and drained it in a single gulp.
“Leonid Osipovich, what was Nina working on?” Constantine asked.
The professor refilled his snifter, placed it on the desk and took a chair.
“Please, do sit down.” He gestured towards a sofa. Constantine sank in the velvet cushions. “Do you remember the last day before you left the university?”
Constantine tried to keep a straight face. He remembered it in detail. His only visit to the ninth floor inside that pagan skyscraper. The wood-paneled corridor, bathed in fluorescent light. The door marked 930. The source of all authority for the 50,000 enrolled students.
“The Rector summoned me to his office for a private meeting,” he replied. “Nina was there, too.”
“May I inquire about the matter at hand?”
“He offered us positions at the Presidential Archives. I declined. Nina accepted.”
It had spelled the turning point in their relationship, her work taking over.
“Quite right. However, the Presidential Archives served merely as a decoy. She stayed there for about a year. An evaluation period, so to speak, before they moved her to her real job.”
“And what was that?”
“The FSB Archives.”
“The FSB? But that means they …”
“They tracked you and Nina from the start, and then picked you for possible recruitment.”
“But why?”
“Why? They want the best. The two of you were the best among your peers. You don’t know that our university has always been a talent pool for KGB recruiters? Come on.”
“Yes, but I’d hardly expect to be their target.”
So, the horror hadn’t started months ago, forcing him to flee Russia. The FSB had been monitoring him for years.
“That was easy,” Fisenko said. “I added my own recommendations. Gave you a stellar reference, in fact.”
“What happened next?” Constantine asked. He could barely contain his disgust, keeping his voice even.
“About a month ago, I got in touch with Nina. We met up and I asked her for a favor. I wanted her to have a word with her superiors to grant me access to a couple of documents in the FSB Archives. Vital for the book I’m writing. Files relating to 1937.”
“The Great Terror?”
Fisenko nodded.
“But all files must be declassified by law beyond a seventy-year period. These can’t remain top secret.”
“The law is never an obstacle to the intelligence services. Indeed, the files are declassified, but access to them is restricted. A nice catch. Some documents can still cause huge uproar, damaging the FSB, so they like to keep a tight lid on everything.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me that she couldn’t make any promises. She was trying to keep a low profile because of what she’d discovered. It also related to the Stalin era, but her findings, as she put it, would reshape history forever. Yes, that’s exactly how she phrased it.”
“Are you serious?”
“I warned her against doing anything rash. She told me never to contact her again. Never saw her since.”
“That’s all? Nothing else?”
“That’s it. Our conversation ended very abruptly, I’m sorry to say.”
Constantine suddenly found the room stuffy. He needed to get outside.
“Did she ever mention the name Michelle?”
Fisenko thought for a moment.
“No.”
“Are you sure, Professor?”
“I’d remember, otherwise. No, she didn’t.”
“What about the name of her controller at the FSB? The one who recruited her?You must know.”
The professor fiddled with his glasses, removing and putting them back on again.
“Timofei Chagin. Former archaeologist. You won’t find him around these parts, though. He’s older than me, went off to retire somewhere in Europe. Now, if you shall excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Constantine rose to leave.
“Your book on the Great Terror? Are you going to write that it never happened?”
“On the contrary, young man. I intend to condemn Stalin once and for all. The personality cult has survived for too long. I see you’re surprised?”
“Surprised is an understatement. It would go against everything you’ve done.” He turned to Fisenko’s sizable bookcase, filled with leather-bound volumes, row after row. “Marx, Lenin, Stalin, Mao. The complete works. Dozens of authors with their eulogies to Stalin. Your academic reputation is built on all this. I can’t believe you’re willing to throw it away, Leonid Osipovich.”
“My academic reputation is exactly what will give the book more weight. I was a Cold Warrior, a guardian of Communist ideology, but studying the system from within has helped me open my eyes. And perhaps … a moment of truth can be enough to redeem a lifetime of lies.”
Constantine shrugged. “Fair enough. Goodbye, professor.”
“Wait, Constantine. Promise me one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m an old man, I’ve lived my life. But you should have so much ahead. Promise me that you won’t get involved in whatever Nina was up to. Let it go.”
“I promise, Leonid Osipovich.”
Constantine left the apartment, took the elevator down and walked out of Block K into a cold drizzle. He zipped up his jacket and turned up the collar as the rain intensified. From what he’d learned, Nina’s self-sacrifice became even more apparent. She had consciously risked her life for him.
“
The hell will I let it go. You don’t really know me too well, Professor.”
13
EUGENE SOKOLOV PARKED HIS Audi Q5 at a curb, facing a high-end deli just off Tverskaya Street. He kept the engine running as he waited for his rendezvous. Moments later, he heard knuckles tapping against the rear passenger window. Sokolov craned his neck to ascertain that it was Pavel Netto.
Skinny, in his late twenties, spiky-haired, and with a laptop case slung over his shoulder, Netto hardly resembled someone who had to deal with danger. But being a brilliant tech wizard, he served in the EMERCOM Extra-Risk Team as Sokolov’s subordinate. Above all, he was a good friend.
Sokolov unlocked the doors and Netto climbed inside. The aroma of fresh Danish pastry filled the car from the grocery bag Netto was holding.
“Wow, this is awesome,” Netto said, running his hand over the upholstery. “I never knew you had that kind of dough!”
“It belongs to the Ministry, formally. Klimov gave it to me to replace my old Land Rover.”
“Oh, you’re lucky that it blew up, then. By the way, Gene, want some pastry?”
“No, thanks. Let’s get down to business, shall we? Did you manage to get anything?”
“Sure.” From the laptop case, Netto produced a manila folder. “Here you go. Took only a couple of hours.”
Sokolov reached for it. “Unbelievable.”
“Well, I only had two names and a keyword to work with but this is pretty much the complete file on Michelle Valery.”
“Valery,” Sokolov echoed under his breath. He flipped the pages, scanning the folder's contents quickly. “Pavel, you outdid yourself, but how? I hope not by hacking, don’t want either of us to run into trouble.”
“Nothing criminal, Gene. Ever read the various terms of service you sign up for online?”
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