“Do sit down,” the Acting President told Klimov. “I've been very eager to see you.”
Klimov took a seat across the table and hesitated before he spoke. The attendance of Vladimir Bystrykh made for an awkward situation.
“Mr. President,” he said, “I was expecting our conversation to be more confidential. National security is at stake.”
“As my personal adviser, Vladimir Ivanovich enjoys my full confidence. So you may speak openly unless you want to act in the most disrespectful manner.”
Klimov kept his composure.
“Very well. In light of the recent bombings and the ongoing counter-terrorist operation, I have vital new data that I must bring to your attention as head of state. Through reliable sources, I've become aware of an undercover plot to overthrow the government. It's being carried out by a group of—”
“No need for all of that.” To Klimov's astonishment, the Acting President cut him short. “The reason I consented to this meeting is to inform you, Mr. Klimov, that you have been relieved of your duties as Minister. As of this moment, consider yourself sacked from your position at EMERCOM. Although I appreciate your confession, but you will be able to voice it later, in front of the investigators.”
Klimov felt blood rush to his temples. “Confession?”
“I'm privy to the full scope of the coup d'état that you have organized. In fact, the General and I have been discussing it at length. Absolutely devious of you to set up an attack against your own agency in order to avoid suspicion and paint yourself as the victim. Such treachery! But thankfully, watchful men are guarding this country and they've been able to see through your plan before it hatched. Your agenda is miserable, Klimov—but at least you'll be able to reassess it while you are placed under house arrest.”
Two plainclothes security officers entered the Meeting Room and towered behind Klimov.
“What's going on? This is completely unlawful!”
“Don't worry about the law. By noon, you should receive the court order sanctioning your detention.”
12
Russian Security Service Begins Manhunt
MOSCOW—A spokesman for the FSB, Russia's domestic security agency, has confirmed the identities of prime suspects linked with the recent bombings in the Russian capital. Disgruntled EMERCOM officer Eugene Sokolov (b. 1983) and his brother Constantine (b. 1979) face life imprisonment on charges of terrorism and multiple murder, the spokesman said. It is believed that the younger man joined a radical Islamic cell following his involvement in the 2004 Beslan tragedy. In turn, Constantine Sokolov underwent training at a Muslim extremist center in France last year. Together, they allegedly coerced Constantine's girlfriend to become a suicide bomber.
The news signifies troubled times at the Emergencies Ministry, coming amid rumors of an imminent high-profile resignation.
Details to follow.
13
SODDING RAIN, DARYL BOOTH thought as the helicopter banked sharply. Sodding mountains. Compared to the rough rides aboard SAS aircraft, flying over the Caucasus required steeper climbs and dives, a harder challenge for his pilot than skimming over Afghan cliffs. Below, the scenery of Adygea offered a more scintillating view than the barren, Taliban-controlled soil ever had. This country was blessed with lush vegetation and picturesque snow-capped peaks, but the strong wind gusts, along with the downpour, kept Booth from enjoying the sight.
The chopper finally negotiated the Caucasus ridge, reaching its secluded destination. With the rotor blades still spinning, Booth stepped out on the helipad. He squinted from the wind spraying drizzle in his face.
Greeting him under the harsh elements, clad in a rain poncho, was Alik Kugotov. In the backdrop, Booth saw the two-storied rococo palace, built from scratch in this forbidding environment. Its opulent, stuccoed exterior reminded Booth of the Chateau de Versailles.
Like a swarm of ants, illegal Asian workers were toiling in the front garden, soaked to the bone as they shoveled dirt, carted marble slabs, and planted mature citrus trees for a future orangery.
Alik had overseen the palace's construction, or rather the appropriate use of the $1 billion allocated for it by Dedura. He'd done that job well—some immigrant laborers accused of stealing had never been seen again.
As the palace neared completion, Booth had flown in for the final security check before Dedura's scheduled arrival. During the planning stage, Booth himself had advised on the location and now he was pleased with the end result. The terrain itself provided so much protection that it had become an impregnable stronghold.
They strode towards the palace as Alik prepared to give a tour.
“All good?” he asked in heavily-accented English, to which Booth nodded. Alik continued: “Mr. Dedura just called. Those people who killed Rezler, they are finished.”
“Very good.” Booth was pleasantly surprised. He knew why Dedura was coming to the palace earlier than expected: to weather the storm. After the unfortunate demise of Chagin and Associates, it was about to strike.
14
CONSTANTINE SLUMPED IN HIS chair.
“Terrorists! We're terrorists! Unbelievable.”
A knot tightened in his stomach. He buried his face in his hands, sighing heavily.
Eugene stood facing the window, arms folded across his chest, his gaze thoughtful.
They had stayed at Netto's place, wary of returning to their own apartment after being targeted by the hitman.
“And I can tell you that it's not a prank,” Netto said as he switched through the open tabs in his web browser, scrolling the pages. “The story is all over the news, together with Klimov's arrest. Official sources. Every law enforcement agency will be on the lookout for you.”
“This is insane. It's just a massive fabrication.”
“All part of the Bolshevik conspiracy, no doubt,” Eugene said. “The wheels have been set in motion—to grind us. We have no time to waste.”
“What's your plan?”
“Fight back. We're felons at large now, but if we just hole up, we'll get caught sooner or later. We must bring them down before they get us: Dedura and the rest, whoever they may be. Remember, the professor mentioned something called the Red List. We'll find out what it means. That's what they're afraid of. And they're afraid of us.”
PART IV
1
POLICE SIRENS WAILED. An armored truck raced down Tverskaya, escorted by cruisers and a minibus. The truck's massive van body had windows covered with wire mesh, which identified it as a prisoner transport vehicle. Startled motorists huddled sideways, letting the procession through. Car horns blared. Pedestrians paused to stare at the unusual scene. It wasn't all that often that they witnessed an actual arrest in this part of town, let alone a full-scale police operation.
The police motorcade stopped in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Carrying Kalashnikov rifles, uniformed men rushed out of the minibus. The special unit stormed into the nearest apartment building. Several minutes later, three unit members came back outside, dragging a handcuffed Pavel Netto to the door at the side of the truck. His face showed stunned bewilderment. They pushed him in and locked him up.
Mingling with the crowd, Sokolov watched the sequence unravel with a mixture of anger and frustration. Despite being less than a hundred meters away, he was utterly powerless to help his friend. Right behind him, his brother also stood transfixed as the police team took Netto in. It was all happening minutes after they'd left Netto's apartment.
They had acquired new clothes to become less distinguishable in the street. Sokolov was wearing a ski parka and jeans. Constantine had donned a trench coat, his head covered by a beanie hat.
“Let's move,” Sokolov whispered. There was nothing else they could do.
As they walked away, he slid the hood of his parka over his head to shield his face.
“It was us they were searching for,” Constantine stated.
“It's likely that the police squad expected to find us there. I even think one of the
neighbors might have tipped them off after seeing us on TV. So maybe they took Pavel in for questioning so as not to return empty-handed. In that case, he should be released soon. He has no idea where we're headed, anyway. And even if he did know our whereabouts, I trust Netto completely. My team was built on loyalty to each other. So he will be of no use to the police …” Sokolov's voice trailed off. “Unless … getting him was the real objective of the raid. There's a chance he's been detained in connection with Klimov's case.”
“As a terrorist suspect, he can be kept in custody indefinitely.”
Sokolov said nothing. He knew that when it came to the war on terror, no method was frowned upon within Russian law enforcement. Netto could be interrogated for days or weeks, and—if deemed necessary—tortured until he started testifying against his own mother. Sokolov never wanted Netto to be subjected to that. All the more reason to crack the Red List as quickly as possible.
But it felt as though they had hit a dead end even before they could begin their fight.
Sokolov had no one to turn to for help. Klimov and Netto now needed help themselves.
He had nowhere to go. Ever since the Theater Drive bombing, FSB officers had been attached to the major EMERCOM installations for alleged security reasons. His home base in Zhukovsky, where his own team was stationed, would be under extra surveillance.
He did not even know who the enemy was.
The elusive Dedura stayed out of range, invulnerable. The professor's files had been destroyed in the fire.
“We need a starting point,” he told Constantine. “We got as far as the Golden Fleece and are now back to square one. Shimko was a cut-out between Dedura and Chagin. She didn't even know who Chagin was.”
“She didn't—but we do,” Constantine said. “From that knowledge we can find the next link.”
“How? The professor left no documents behind. Most of his papers have been destroyed by the fire and the rest have become inaccessible following his death.”
“I know. Yet I'm certain that it's not something we must find, but rather someone.”
“Such as?”
“A successor. Chagin's right-hand man and keeper of his secrets.”
Sokolov looked at his brother with renewed hope.
“Do you know who that person is?”
Constantine's eyes, the color of storm clouds, reflected sheer determination.
“Yes. I'm confident,” he said quietly.
Moving away from the throng of people, to the side streets off Tverskaya, they found another payphone.
Sokolov still had one call to make.
2
THE VILLAGE OF USOVO lay a short distance away from the presidential compound at Gorki. Favored for decades by Soviet dignitaries, it was a village in name only. Crossing the beautiful countryside, driveways led to the homes of the wealthiest and most powerful. Each dacha occupied a secluded plot of land amid pine trees. Preceded by a black SUV with roof-mounted strobes, an executive limo pulled up to the residence known simply as Dacha Number Three. Tall brick walls formed its perimeter. As the cars drove through the electric gates, the patrolmen stationed outside snapped to attention.
The limousine stopped. From the front passenger seat, a suit-clad guard exited the car and opened the door for FSB Director Saveliy Frolov.
Frolov climbed out and walked toward the house, while his guards stayed in their cars.
The sprawling loghouse had been built in the nineteenth century by a Russian nobleman, subsequently killed during the Revolution. For the last forty years, the house had belonged to General Vladimir Bystrykh. Encompassing a hectare of land adjacent to a nearby river, Dacha Number Three had a market value of over $10 million, although the general had never had to pay a dime for it as a result of government privileges.
Leaves from birch trees rustled under Frolov's step. As he approached the entrance, a middle-aged man ushered him inside. Although policemen patrolled the exclusive village, Bystrykh chose to employ his own security detail for additional protection.
Frolov entered the living room where Bystrykh had anticipated his arrival. On the coffee table, a chilled bottle of vodka stood waiting alongside two glasses and a plate of pickles. Bystrykh finished stirring the embers in the large fireplace and put the poker away, seeing Frolov. They shook hands, and the veteran patted the FSB chief on the shoulder.
“Glad you're here, Saveliy!”
“So am I, Vladimir Ivanovich.”
They sat facing each other in rich leather club chairs. With a steady hand, Bystrykh filled the glasses with vodka. Already Frolov felt the pleasant heat coming from the fireplace. A shot of vodka spread the warmth inside him.
“To our success,” Bystrykh toasted, emptying his glass. Then he grabbed a pickle with his fingers and took a bite. “Good, isn't it?”
“That's some fine vodka.”
“Homemade pickles go really well with it. Even better with vodka are women … But these days I can only enjoy the former, not the latter.” The veteran grinned.
“And it was a fine toast as well,” Frolov added. “I believe that success is imminent.”
“Yes … It is, indeed. That moron is swallowing every piece of advice that I'm feeding him—hook, line and sinker. He truly believes that Klimov has been plotting his downfall.”
“Your counsel is invaluable to our cause. The weight you carry in the Kremlin cannot be overstated.”
“I've waited too long for my influence to come to fruition. However, I am not too impressed by your own efforts, Saveliy.”
Frolov furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“The vermin … those bandits which have caused us so much trouble.”
“The Sokolovs.”
“Yes. They are still on the loose. What you're doing is not enough.”
“Don't worry. Consider them neutralized.”
“Neutralized? And yet, Chagin is dead. Shimko is dead. The Golden Fleece operation has been compromised. Suddenly, we are on the brink of a catastrophe. After this, you're telling me not to worry!”
“Vladimir Ivanovich, my dear, what else do you expect me to do? I've opened four criminal cases against them. They are the most wanted terrorists in the country, even in Europe. International arrest warrants are in force. There's no place on earth where they can hide.”
“You know as well as I do that, lacking concrete evidence, all charges against them will fall apart in any court of law. Even the courts that we control will be hard-pressed to sentence them.”
Frolov shook his head. “It won't come to that. Against terrorism, extra-judicial methods are employed as a rule. They will be killed on sight. This doctrine is still in effect, and every operative will adhere to it. Terrorists and their collaborators must be destroyed, as our former president used to say. They're doomed.”
“Doomed men are dangerous. Those with determination, especially so. To triumph, they are prepared to die. That's not something even you and I are capable of, let alone the incompetent, unmotivated police.”
“General, I am fully committed to restoring our glory—”
“Not so much that you'd risk your life for it. Or your comfortable status. And you're right, because neither would I. That's foolish, so let the fools die.”
Bystrykh poured more vodka into the glasses. “What about that super-assassin of yours? Is he available to finish the job?”
“No. I need him for the final phase. It cannot be disrupted. Besides, the counter-terrorism units have all the resources to hunt the Sokolovs down. It would be best for my man not to meddle with the official investigation, or else he risks getting caught in a special forces raid which might be launched any time now.”
“A matter of time, but time is short. The bandits can cause more damage before they are eradicated. I have deployed my own men to prevent that.”
“I don't think that is necessary. The fanaticism of your retired soldiers can do more harm than good.”
“There is no greater harm than inact
ion. The Red List is under threat. The equilibrium has been unsettled. If challenged by Dedura, would you be willing to gamble with what you have?”
“My superiority over him?”
“Your life.”
Frolov grunted.
“We both know the answer to that, Saveliy … And so does Dedura.”
Frolov rubbed his chin pensively. The old general was right. Although he had accepted his role in their hierarchy, Dedura was too independent and unpredictable. Dealing with him was like trying to control a golem. Reined in, he was a powerful ally for crushing their enemies, but one who could turn against his creators at any moment. With the core of the Red List shaken, Dedura might regard his elder comrades as a hindrance to be swept away.
Frolov had kept this eventuality in the back of his mind. Now the problem was beginning to materialize.
He finished his vodka, wished Bystrykh the best of health, and departed hurriedly.
3
THE WATCHERS CONTINUED TO wait for their target.
The three men were sitting inside a Toyota sedan parked opposite the EMERCOM search-and-rescue headquarters in Zhukovsky. It was a peaceful suburban community with a slow-paced, small-town feel. Even the low-rise EMERCOM building had an unpretentious look, despite its sleek design of glass and blue-painted concrete.
Next to the driver, the main watcher kept an eye on the facility's entrance. A former paratrooper, now in his fifties but still in top shape, he was skilled in reconnaissance. In the rear seat, his younger partner had no battlefield experience and only basic training, and thus lacked patience.
“My neck is sore. We've wasted hours for nothing. They're not going to show up.”
“The traitor and his brother are probably too smart for that,” the senior man said. “Our alternative target is their associate. He has to come out eventually. When he does, he might lead us to the Sokolovs. If not, we will snatch him. Either he will tell us where to find them, or we can make them search for him.”
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