A perfect system, except now they all faced destruction. Penetrated by an external force, the inner equilibrium had disintegrated. Chagin and Bystrykh had died. Without them, he and Dedura remained one-on-one, and neither could stop the other from usurping all of the power. The pitfall lay in the fact that Dedura held the Red List file against Frolov. The dossier incriminating Dedura was contained inside the general's strongbox. And Frolov himself possessed information against Chagin, rendered useless after the professor's death. The interlinked circle had suffered a critical failure. In their possible stand-off, Dedura was armed with a bazooka while Frolov could only fire blanks from a pea-shooter.
He had to address the issue immediately. Besides, notifying Dedura of Bystrykh's death was his duty. On the way back from Usovo, in his limo, Frolov dialed the private number.
The call connected.
“The general is dead,” he said without preamble.
A few seconds passed before Dedura replied.
“That puts us in a precarious situation, don't you think?”
“Yes, Robert. We need to discuss it.”
“I'm listening.”
“As you understand, our arrangement can no longer function as intended. Two parts of the Red List have fallen into enemy hands. I suggest that we protect ourselves by submitting the rest for secure storage.”
“You want me to give up my files, Comrade Frolov?”
“A token of good will to prove that you do not seek to gain ascendancy. I want the originals that you have. It will safeguard us both from enemy action.”
“The files are more than secure here in the mountains. Who are these enemies you speak of? A historian and a rescuer? Don't try to make a fool of me. For all I know, you have quietly claimed the Red List files from Chagin and Bystrykh. In that case, you possess three-quarters of it now. And you think you can have it all? I'm not insane to yield full control over hundreds of names in a future government. I won't let you hold all the strings.”
“Robert, I can only regard your behavior as a sign of aggressive intent.”
“My part of the Red List is a contingency measure against your trickery. And I shall not relinquish it. Consider yourself warned, Frolov.”
The connection broke. Frolov felt like tossing the phone out the car window.
The quarrel had been coming. Dedura had planned it for a long time.
No doubt Dedura's presidential aspirations had turned his head. The next strike was set to throw the government into turmoil. Frolov was capable of forcing the Acting President to resign even without Bystrykh's backroom influence. As a result, Dedura would emerge as the leading candidate. State-controlled TV stations could transform an unknown cardboard cutout into the nation's idol within a few weeks. By the election date, the brainwashing would ensure a landslide victory, aided by voter fraud. The ruling bureaucracy would have no option but accept their new master. The Red List encompassed seventy percent of Kremlin staffers, who could thus be blackmailed for support. Bystrykh and Frolov had plotted to become the force behind the throne. The kingmaker and the puppeteer—both roles now falling on Frolov's shoulders. But it turned out that Dedura wanted to rule the country on his own. The arrogant bastard had lost his head.
Just as well, then, that Frolov had made provision for such insolence.
23
THEY TOOK TURNS BEHIND the wheel. During the first shift, Sokolov sped past Tula towards Lipetsk. Constantine dozed in the backseat, but the rest hardly proved refreshing. On the uneven road surface, every pothole registered inside the Land Rover in continuous jolts. As they sped farther away from Moscow, the increasing distance was reflected by the deteriorating pavement and ever more bleak scenery. The rural highway stretched beyond the horizon, cutting through infinite fields. The soil spread out neglected, with the brown earth clumps covered only by a mass of black blots.
As the Land Rover charged down the highway, the black swarm of crows rose from the fields, wings fluttering. The crows circled in the leaden sky, disturbed by the intrusion before again settling roadside.
The morose landscape filled Sokolov with dread. This is what Mother Russia had become, barren earth scavenged by crows. Once rich and prosperous, the breadbasket of half the world under the czars, now ruined by communism, interring millions of her peasants.
By midday, approaching Voronezh, exhaustion had overpowered him and he swapped places with Constantine. Five hundred kilometers clear of Moscow, they neared the halfway point.
In lieu of sleep, a temporary oblivion embraced him. Gunshots echoed, but it was only the horror of his imagination. When he opened his eyes again, his muscles felt even more sore but at least his mind had cleared of fatigue.
They pulled over for a short break. Wary of showing up at gas stations for fear of identification, they spent the fuel canisters, refilling the twin tanks of their gluttonous Wolf. They also gulped down their MREs, washing the tasteless food down with mineral water, and pushed on for the final stretch of their journey.
Learning their family history had inspired the destination of their escape. They had followed the route charted by Adrian: south. Back to their origins, their homeland—the quiet River Don.
After they had passed the riverhead, the geography changed almost immediately. The north and the south contrasted as if on cue. Gone was the dark, depressing wasteland. A lush, wild steppe rolled in tracts, crisscrossed by dry gullies. Although deprived of a caring master, desolate, impoverished, conquered by savages, it had lived on, impregnated by the blood of its people. Blood memory still existed deep in that land from which to draw strength. As long as the last remaining Cossack survived, the Don refused to die.
They completed their thousand-kilometer trip in fifteen hours. Off the highway, they exited onto a series of unpaved trails. Soon, all markings disappeared. The mud had grown so deep that it was difficult to tell where the road ended and the steppe began. The Land Rover plowed on.
Finally, in the brilliant lava-red glow cast by the setting sun, they saw a wooden cross planted in the ground. Having reached their destination, they got out of the vehicle. Approaching the slanting Orthodox cross, they saw Cyrillic lettering carved in the weathered, cracked surface of the upper crossbeam.
Their own family name.
Sokolov.
A hamlet founded by their ancestors in the year 1893.
They walked on past the cross at the entrance of their former estate but saw nothing up ahead. Nothing but the tall grass of the steppe that stretched on.
“At the turn of the twentieth century, the population of Sokolov exceeded one thousand people,” Constantine said, recalling the brief data included in the file. “The hamlet spanned three kilometers. Fifty children studied at the local school.”
No children. No homes. No trees. Forsaken land, carrying not a trace of a once-thriving community that the Red Army had pillaged and burned, wiping out the population.
“I don't see a single stone intact,” Sokolov said. “But there must have been over a hundred houses at the time. All gone.”
The Sokolov family had also built a church, the first target in line for demolition under the Reds.
“And it's as if the church has never been here,” Constantine said.
Where the church should have been, they discovered numerous dirt mounds, overgrown with weeds. Unmarked mass graves.
Standing there in the knee-high grass, Sokolov eyed the wild land around him, bathed in the last blood-colored rays of sundown. He had seen the effects of devastating fires and floods, ravaging hurricanes and earthquakes. None of that could ever bring annihilation as complete as that waged by the Bolsheviks. He felt his chest tighten with sorrow. Succumbed to ruin, this served as a visual record of the Communist rule. Ransacked hamlets like their own, with victims by the thousands and tens of thousands amounting to a picture of genocide all across the Russian land.
He let out a sigh.
“Well,” he said, “here we are. Back to our roots. Although we'll nev
er know which house the Sokolovs lived in. Or if any of them are lying here in one of these graves.”
Constantine crossed himself and said a quiet prayer.
Darkness was descending.
On their return to the Land Rover, the satellite phone chirped.
24
NIGHTMARE AND REALITY HAD intertwined to such an extent that Netto failed to differentiate between the two. He found himself back at his apartment. He wanted to erase all memory of Lefortovo prison from his mind, but failed to block the claustrophobic feeling which haunted him. He opened the window in his room, breathing in lungfuls of icy air. The urban architecture felt as grim as Lefortovo. He wished that he could curl up, keyboard in lap, and never set foot outside again.
Did that bad dream truly happen? he thought.
But the flip phone in his pocket confirmed the actuality of his predicament.
He had to comply with Minski's instructions. He had to do keep the nightmare from returning, so he was ready to carry out any order.
With trembling fingers, he dialed the satphone number and hit the call button, waiting for the connection to establish. He knew full well that the call would pass through an intelligence-gathering terminal.
AT AN FSB SURVEILLANCE center, a passive satellite logging system monitored the phone network, intercepting all communications. It scanned both the uplink and downlink channels from several spot beams, deciphering network encryption and detecting call data. Capable of tracking voice, SMS, fax, and IP data, the system recorded every parameter it acquired from the satellite signal. It stored and decoded every initiated transmission on the fly. Thus, it automatically displayed the details of Netto's call to Sokolov.
“Hello?”
“Gene? It's Netto.”
“Oh, thank God! I'm so glad to hear you! Did you manage to get out?”
“Yeah, well, I'm back home. Zubov gave me this number.”
“What was it all about?”
“Some confusion but it's all cleared up now, thanks to a friend of yours. They had nothing on me, so they released me after a couple of days. A waste of their time more than mine.”
“That's a relief.”
“What about you and Constantine? Where are you guys?”
“I'll tell you later, Pavel. For now, thanks for the call. I'm glad you're okay. Bye.”
The monitoring system processed the call time and duration, the IMEI and telephone numbers of both parties, and most important for Minski, the geographical location of the target satphone. Looking at the latitude and longitude coordinates pinpointed on a digital map, Minski breathed a sigh of relief. He would never have tracked the Sokolovs down if Netto hadn't provided their number. Their phone conversations would not have been picked from the stream going through the satellite network. But as soon as Minski flagged the number and Netto made the call, he had them nailed. Minski chuckled. Nothing hurt the enemy as much as a rat inflicting damage from within.
AS A RULE, DIRECTOR Frolov stayed at his office well into the night. The tradition arose from Stalin's nocturnal orgies but partly his habit had grown from necessity due to the time difference with Europe and the U.S. Whatever the reason for his nighthawk sleeping patterns, the 1 a.m. phone call caught him at his desk.
“Yes?”
“Saveliy Ignatievich, this is Minski.”
“Ah, what is it, Anton?”
“We have achieved results with COMINT. I think we've got those bastards, Comrade Director.”
“So, where are they?”
“Somewhere between Rostov and Novocherkassk,” Minski said, reciting the coordinates. “This is their last known position, but they might still be on the move. Do we instigate an assault?”
“That is beyond your competence. Stick to relaying information from your mole. Is that clear?”
“Acknowledged, Comrade Director!”
“Keep up the work and report any news.”
Frolov hung up the receiver. He picked up a crystal prism on his desk and twiddled with it. The glass encased a squashed slug, which to him symbolized the transience of human existence. He pondered a dilemma.
On the one hand, he had to finish the Sokolovs without further ado. They had walked this earth for much longer than he should have allowed them to. Stalling their elimination had already cost him. On the other hand, he had caught them like mice in a trap. Minski's message pleased him. Their protracted run could only end in anguish. With every exit point sealed, the Russian border airtight, they had been dealt a losing hand to begin with. However, his issue with Dedura required radical urgency. He had to resolve it without delay. The Sokolovs had brought that trouble upon his head, and he conceived a way for them to solve it as they met their doom.
Again he picked up the corded phone from its cradle.
It gave him great satisfaction to re-activate Imran.
PART V
1
IN THE WEE HOURS of the morning, when the sunrays carried no warmth, Sergei Zubov shuddered, stifling a yawn as he eased the dog leash.
“Come on, boy. Do your thing and let's go home.”
His three-year-old Rottweiler sniffed the ground. The dog tugged Zubov towards a lilac shrub on the edge of a children's playground. All of a sudden, Zubov's dog tensed, growling.
A silver-bodied Infiniti QX pulled up behind them. The driver's door swung open and a bear-sized figure got out of the powerful SUV. Prematurely gray, the hulking middle-aged man wore a navy-blue biker jacket, a pair of Levi's jeans and cowboy boots.
The Rottweiler barked furiously.
“Easy, boy. Easy, Alex. It's a friend. Calm down.”
“Alex?” the man said. “Did you actually name your dog after me?”
“Sorry, Alexei.” Zubov grinned. “No offense.”
“None taken, Serge. You know how I feel about dogs. I'll always miss my pitbull from the EMERCOM days.”
“So what brings you here? It's not nostalgia, I gather.”
“I need a reliable man like you. Or your team leader. But Gene Sokolov has gone into hiding, hasn't he?”
Zubov shrugged. “You're pretty good at that new private eye business of yours.”
“Private eye? More like rent-a-cop. But at heart, I'll always remain what I am, a rescuer. The EMERCOM bombing hurt me so much personally. After they placed Daniil under house arrest, I figured out that something went awry inside. I couldn't sit around while the Ministry got torn apart, so I started to dig. From what my sources have told me, I can predict only one outcome. And nobody else can avert it. We must take crucial measures. You can say no, but I trust you to keep this subject confidential.”
Alexei Bulgak had indeed changed little, Zubov noted. Sharing his plan, he was as upfront as ever. And every bit as daring in his strategy.
“Well,” Bulgak said when he finished, “are you with me on this, Serge?”
“You must be kidding, Colonel. That's the stuff of my dreams.”
2
ON THE TOP FLOOP of a high-end residential building in the Taganka district, a fat-faced police lieutenant was battling against boredom. He did not see Bulgak coming at him. Stationed to watch over the former minister's penthouse suite, the policeman sat through the middle of his shift, laboring at a crossword puzzle. With the detainee confined inside his own apartment twenty-four hours a day, an electronic sensor secured over his ankle, he had nothing to worry about. His only duty involved isolating Klimov from any unauthorized communication, as per the court-imposed restrictions.
He put the newspaper aside, opening a bag of potato chips as the elevator door opened. Bulgak stepped out to witness the policeman chewing a mouthful of crisps.
As Bulgak approached him, the policeman stuffed his cheeks, paying no heed.
“Excuse me.”
“What's the matter? You can't go in—”
The clenched right fist swung into the lieutenant's chin. Bulgak felled him with a single strike. The hapless sentry tumbled in a heap, blacking out, his peaked cap landing on the la
minated floor next to him, crumbs all over his face.
Bulgak stomped on the plastic bag, squashing it with a crunch.
“You need a fresh diet. I'm helping you out.”
He proceeded to tie up the policeman with duct tape.
3
INCOMMUNICADO, DANIIL PETROVICH KLIMOV, former Minister and soon-to-be-dismissed General, resorted to reading. He opened a volume of Dostoevsky, failing to concentrate on the cumbersome prose as his mind wandered. Apart from his lawyer, only his family members were allowed to visit him. Ironically, someone he had considered his closest family member—his wife—had divorced him because of his job, and now the very same job had cost him his freedom.
But his service constituted more than merely a job. Above all, he felt commitment to his duty, and the bond forged with his men. He felt responsible for his decisions in the current crisis, for the risk his friends were in. Agonizingly, the e-mail and phone ban meant that he had no knowledge of their fate.
He put the worn hardcover aside. He'd re-read it countless times anyway. Crime and Punishment. The title seemed apt under the circumstances. He was serving his punishment for crossing the wrong people. But he didn't doubt for a moment that the villains would answer for their crimes.
As he paced the room, his shoes clicked against the lacquered floor. He wore his full dress uniform, prepared to be convoyed to court.
Suddenly, he heard a commotion outside. No sooner had he reached the door to his apartment than it burst open. Klimov stood dumbfounded as he saw his former friend, Alexei Bulgak.
“What on earth is going on?”
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