The Collaborator

by Ian Kharitonov

  Fifty minutes and over a dozen subway stops later, they reached the University. The building stood out in the nightscape, even more imposing when bathed in artificial light. He guided Eugene into Block K, and they took the elevator to the tenth floor. Constantine rang the doorbell outside Fisenko's apartment.

  “Yes, yes, who's there?”

  “Leonid Osipovich, it's me again. Constantine Sokolov. It's urgent.”

  “Wait a minute, please.”

  The wait did literally take a full minute, and then some. All the while, no sound issued from behind Fisenko's door. Eugene glanced at his Breitling quizzically. A few more seconds later, Fisenko unlatched the lock and opened the door. He was wearing a robe and slippers.

  “Ah, Constantine, what a strange hour you've picked for a social call. And this young man is …?”

  “My name is Eugene.”

  “My brother.”

  “Hmmm. Well, do come in and get some weight off your feet.”

  The apartment seemed unchanged, save for an even bigger amount of books and papers everywhere, if that was possible. In the living room, Constantine sat next to Fisenko on the sofa. Eugene stood near a bookshelf in the corner.

  “So, what is so urgent that it can't wait till the morning?” asked the professor.

  “I think I know what Nina was killed for,” Constantine said. “The secret that she told you pertained to Stalin.”

  Fisenko straightened. “Indeed?”

  “The Golden Fleece.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Fisenko stared at him with a blank expression.

  “My word … Are you feeling unwell? You look awful and you sound absolutely delirious. Stalin and the Golden Fleece!”

  “I'm quite lucid. Let me explain.”

  For the next twenty minutes, he gave Fisenko a detailed account of the Sokolov family's Cossack lineage and the mystery associated with it. As fully as possible, he recounted Nina's call and her death in the Arbat explosion.

  “Nina's investigation was all about ancestry. That is the key to the puzzle,” Constantine concluded.

  “Well then, go on.”

  Fisenko's initial skepticism seemed to wane. Constantine got his attention.

  “As you are well aware, Leonid Osyp'ch, Soviet historiography shared more similarities with propaganda than science. As such, it did everything to diminish or entirely dismiss the role—if not the very existence—of the Scythian heritage and its traces in Russia. Despite the fact that for centuries the Scythians occupied the entire Russian South, it is argued that they left no lasting legacy. Primitive, nomadic tribes that are hardly worth a mention in textbooks—Stalin's textbooks, which have never been scrutinized or challenged. But as much as Stalin relished amending Russian history, he could not fit some basic facts into his newborn Soviet myth.”

  “That much is true,” Fisenko conceded. “What facts do you mean?”

  “Nomadic tribes do not build cities. Savages can't create a culture that produces golden artifacts of exceptional quality. And an advanced civilization that inhabited the Russian steppes for centuries did not vanish into thin air. The Scythian artifacts show a cultural continuity passed on to their descendants—the Cossacks. But the past needed to be concealed, and the Cossacks denied their identity as a nation. You wanted to destroy the cult of Stalin once and for all? So there's your weapon to expose him: the groundwork laid for decossackisation. Brushed-up history to hide a twentieth-century genocide. Those cut off from their roots are deprived of the rights won by previous generations, of the pride, courage and responsibility that they must inherit. They are ignorant of the oppression their ancestors fought, and of crimes committed against them. A faceless herd, easy to control. That's why the links between the Scythians and the Cossacks were wiped out. No man, no problem, as Comrade Stalin used to say. If these people have never existed, then they have never been killed. By him and his cronies.”

  “That's a fascinating theory, Constantine. So you believe that Nina's discovery centered around the mass murder carried out by the Bolsheviks? But these tragic events are common knowledge. And I fail to see the connection between the Scythians and the Second World War history which Nina said she was researching. I'm sorry, but your hypothesis is a mess. You need something more than speculation—you need historical evidence.”

  “How about fresh corpses for proof? My brother and I have been nearly killed. Nina died before my eyes. Today—an hour ago—three people were shot dead because of something that you say makes no sense. You agree that the Cossack genocide by the Bolsheviks was real. The fact is undeniable. But for some reason, all hints leading to it are deemed too dangerous by some unknown force, even those tracing back to antiquity. Why? What sort of madness is this?”

  Fisenko pursed his lip. “How did the Scythian angle ever come up?”

  “The same people who murdered Nina are running an art-smuggling ring in Europe.”

  “Art smugglers? Interesting. Then what makes you believe it's something other than ordinary criminal activity?”

  “Ordinary criminals don't blow up government buildings. Nor do they deal with conspiracies involving the FSB and Stalinist secrets. They don't kill anyone over an old KGB dossier or the possession of a St. George's medal. I believe that the man complicit in it all is Timofei Chagin. His name also cropped up in relation to the Golden Fleece. You said you could get in touch with him as Nina's recruiter. Help us to find him.”

  Fisenko nodded, deep in thought.

  “So you're saying the art is exclusively Scythian or Sarmatian, from the same source?”

  “We have plenty of pictures. You can see for yourself.”

  “Right now? You have photographs with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind, professor?” Eugene asked. With the cracked screen useless to view any photos, he reached over to Fisenko's desktop computer so that he could connect the phone.

  “No! Don't touch that!”

  But the warning had come too late.

  9

  SOKOLOV'S HAND BRUSHED OVER the mouse, and the desktop screen lit up, coming out of sleep mode. Looking at the monitor, he saw an open chat window. It showed a single message sent to an anonymous contact.

  They're here.

  Sokolov realized the meaning instantly, and the sender's username dispelled any doubt. It was timofei_chagin.

  “We've been trying to find Chagin, and he's right here, in this room.”

  “What?” Constantine exclaimed.

  The professor darted from the sofa, his hand whipping out a pistol from inside his robe. The barrel swayed between Sokolov and his brother.

  “Both of you, freeze. Now then, nice to get this show over with, alas a bit prematurely. But at least this will bring about a swift resolution. Duplicity isn't worth the effort with somebody you're going to kill anyway. Though I enjoy the game normally. When I started out at the KGB, I received a passport in that name for my first foreign assignment. Timofei Chagin. The alias has stuck since then. I actually prefer it to Fisenko. Using multiple names is not unlike the Bolshevik tradition.”

  Constantine's eyes burned with contempt.

  Whereas Fisenko had feigned civility, Chagin's tone was condescending.

  “You fool. Do you think you've broken new ground with your ramblings? Yes, the Cossacks were a nation descended from the Scythians. Everyone has always known it! Everyone in charge of historical doctrine, not plebeian scholars like you. But it needs to be brushed under the carpet. Cossack nationalism must be squashed: it's too dangerous. Eventually, after the last of the Cossacks have perished, we will mention them in the textbooks, for the sake of historical accuracy: Eons ago the Cossacks existed, only to become extinct. Poof, gone. Forget about them and move on.”

  “Dangerous—to whom? The government, fearing claims for independence?”

  The old man laughed. “No, not the government. Although these crooks are content to keep Cossack resurgence at bay, the Kremlin is run by c
ynical businessmen. The high officials care about money and power, not history or ideology. But outside, there is a secret Communist faction dedicated to reviving Lenin's great ideas. Soon, as they unveil their plans, the country will kneel before them.”

  “And you are part of this clique. So much for denouncing Stalin, professor.”

  “The book is just an export product. The international community will gobble it up, and be none the wiser. Look, the foreign voices will say, Uncle Joe has been condemned. And at home, it will ease the minds of the liberal idiots. I'm ready to sacrifice his name in order to preserve his empire. Stalin has become a tarnished effigy. We, the true Communists, can continue practicing his methods without him. Start afresh if necessary, no longer in his shadow. No single man is bigger than the collective dream. The end justifies the means, and in the end our goal shall prevail. And Stalin's goal. It is inevitable that Communism will rule the world. It is the natural course of history. Those standing in the way must be crushed. Insects like you and your girlfriend. No remorse. Nina wanted to stop us, so she stole documents from me. Big mistake. She thought she could expose us and we'd do nothing about it. She thought she could single-handedly force a trial against Soviet restoration. How stupid, how naïve. Doomed by the Red List. She should never have touched it.”

  “Put the gun down,” Sokolov interjected. “You might hurt yourself.”

  “I'm a good shot, don't worry. If you so much as flinch, I'll put a hole in your head. But I won't have to do it myself. The dirty work will be taken care of. You made it so easy, showing up here. More stupid than Nina! At least she had the brains to run away from me.”

  He smirked triumphantly.

  Constantine bolted, going for the old man's gun. The professor pivoted, leveling his weapon as Constantine tried to prize it from his hand. The gun went off as they grappled, the slug lodging itself in the parquet. In a flash, Sokolov rushed to aid his brother, smashing his fist into the professor's temple. Bone crunched. Fisenko/Chagin collapsed. Sokolov had no time to check whether he was dead or unconscious.

  The front door creaked. Someone else was coming.

  He gestured for Constantine to step out on the balcony.

  Then he saw a cylindrical object fly into the room, landing against the wooden floor with a metallic clunk. Another flashbang. He dashed to the balcony, which was too tight to accommodate the two of them, merely a decoration. They were cornered.

  “Grenade!” he uttered with urgency.

  Constantine looked down from the dizzying height and swallowed.

  The only way was up.

  Sokolov swung his leg up and climbed the wrought-iron railing on the balcony ledge. Standing erect, balancing precariously on the narrow metal bar that separated him from a ten-story drop, he stretched out to reach the balustrade a level above, supported by his brother.

  The flashbang detonated with a roar. Blazing light emanated from the room. The balcony shook, throwing Constantine off balance.

  Sokolov pushed up, grasping the balustrade on the upper floor and hauling himself like a gymnast over the parapet. As soon as his feet planted firmly, he stooped over the railing, grabbing Constantine's extended forearms as he jumped up.

  Another flashbang blasted as the assassin cleared every room.

  With an effort, he heaved Constantine in and they crashed down heavily onto the cold, hard floor.

  On the balcony below, the door burst open as the assassin came out of Fisenko's study. Cursing, he must have scanned the street and gone back inside. He had no way of knowing they were directly above him.

  Lying motionless for a while, Sokolov smelled smoke wafting from the apartment of Fisenko/Chagin. He realized they had to flee at once. Exploding, the flashbangs had started a fire, the sheaves of paper igniting easily.

  They walked right through the apartment, past a dumbfounded, shawl-draped elderly lady watching TV in the living room.

  “Call the police,” Sokolov told her. “And the firemen.”

  If she took them for burglars, they must have been the oddest pair she was likely to witness.

  Then he and Constantine exited via the front door.

  10

  THE BOMB CRATER HAD been patched on Theater Drive, the asphalt smooth and level as before. The night made the burns and scars less visible on the face of the EMERCOM building. On the sixth floor, Minister Klimov sat at the head of the conference table in his 210-square-meter office, an immense map of Russia taking up the wall behind him. Over the last few days, the lines in his forehead had deepened, his face ashen from the extra pressure endured since the terrorist attack. He listened with a stern expression as Netto, Constantine and Eugene briefed him, each adding their own details to the transpiring picture. Whatever stress he was facing paled in comparison to what the Sokolovs had gone through. The two of them were lucky to be alive. Both looked worn out, their clothes dirt-stained.

  When they finished, he asked just one question.

  “Therefore, the man pulling the strings is someone named Dedura?”

  “That's the conclusion to which our findings point,” Sokolov said. “Unless, of course, there's someone else behind him.”

  “Can't rule that out. But Dedura is as close to the top as one can get.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of Dedura. Whispers in and around the Kremlin. The name is not spoken of lightly in the higher echelons of power.”

  “I ran a background check on him and got almost zilch,” said Netto. “Robertas Dedura, owner of a Swiss-based conglomerate, mainly specializing in the oil trade. The full range of his interests is unclear but one of the companies registered under the Swiss umbrella goes by the name of Avarus S.A. His fortune is worth an estimated $20 billion. The rest is guesswork. No public photos. Nationality unknown. Even his reported age varies between the forties and fifties. That's it. He could be a ghost. Funny name, too.”

  “He's a mystery, all right,” Klimov said. “There's been debate among government insiders as to whether Dedura is Swiss, Jewish or Lithuanian—most likely the latter, as his birthplace is rumored to be the town of Kaunas. Anyway, back in the 1990s he secured a lucrative deal to become an intermediary for Russian oil exports to Europe. Don't ask me how. The instantaneous mega-profit made him into an oligarch, although one who always stayed in the shadows. And when the government cracked down on his peers, trying to limit their political influence, Dedura remained untouched. It was as if he held some secret that the Kremlin truly feared, thus preferring to keep him at a distance, giving him carte blanche.”

  “In other words, Dedura has enough resources to finance this neo-Bolshevik cabal that wants to seize power,” Sokolov concluded.

  “What's the point for these neo-Bolsheviks in attacking EMERCOM?” Klimov asked.

  “Destabilization,” Constantine said. “They can never change the status quo within the current political system. And EMERCOM is one of the few agencies capable of withstanding a possible coup. Plus, it's a statement of intent. Weakening EMERCOM should pave the way for what's yet to come. Wholesale terror. New attacks that will topple the government. These are the same tactics that have been used by terrorist revolutionaries since the nineteenth century.”

  “What I'm struggling to understand is the logic behind Dedura's involvement,” said Sokolov. “Why should he want to destroy the very hierarchy that he profits from?”

  “Oh, that's easy,” Netto said. “Even I can figure that out.”

  All eyes turned on the young tech wizard.

  He smiled.

  “If you can have a piece of the pie, why not the whole thing?”

  KLIMOV ADJOURNED THE MEETING. He'd learned enough to make an informed decision. Alone in his office, he picked up the receiver of a no-dial desk phone. It was the Kremlin hotline.

  11

  DESPITE THE CLOCK SUGGESTING that it was early morning, hours remained until dawn brightened the nocturnal sky. The headlights of Klimov's Mercedes cut through the gloom as he drove to
Gorki. Upon his phone call, the Acting President had agreed to see him at once.

  He kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was busy preparing the statement he was about to deliver. He had to present all of the facts in the most convincing way.

  Clearing the checkpoints, Klimov entered the presidential residence. A security officer ushered him to the same Meeting Room where the Security Council sessions took place.

  The Acting President was waiting for him.

  Klimov had expected a one-on-one conversation, but there was another person present in the room. Occupying the nearest chair to the right of the Acting President, dressed in full military uniform, sat a ninety-year-old man.

  Ninety-seven-year-old, to be precise. Vladimir Ivanovich Bystrykh had long since retired from the army, but his knowledge and wisdom carried so much weight that he served as the Kremlin's special advisor. The Acting President also benefited from the public support of General Bystrykh, a figure revered by all. Perhaps the only number equaling Bystrykh's honors was the amount of books and films dedicated to him in admiration. The Last Veteran. A World War II legend. The front of his parade uniform was covered by rows of service ribbons, the medal collection almost uncountable. Wrinkles etched his face. His head was hairless and liver-spotted. His teeth had yellowed. And yet, his mind stayed sharp. Deceptively frail on first impression, he gesticulated with great vitality as he talked in a deep, clear voice.

  “Ah, here's the Minister.”

  His eyes shone with an uncanny alertness. A sly spark glinted behind the thick horn-rimmed glasses at the sight of Klimov. A thin smile creased Bystrykh's mouth.