Disgorged by the waterfall, he dropped from a considerable height together with the gurgling spray. The thrilling, weightless sensation ended as he went underwater in a vortex of bubbles. The mass of water was so deep that he couldn't feel the bottom with his toes. He kicked upward and bobbed above the surface, quickly swimming away from the waterfall.
Then he heard Zubov's voice shouting at him.
“Well, I'll be damned, Gene, you sure know how to make an emphatic entrance!”
Sokolov saw his friend sitting on the shore of the mountain lake into which he had crashed, and couldn't help but laugh.
16
WHEN SOKOLOV GOT OUT of the water, Constantine came running at him and squeezed him in a bear hug. Close behind, Klimov patted him on the back, beaming.
Sokolov let out a cry of euphoria, ecstatic that his brother and his best friends were alive and well. Red-eyed, Constantine swallowed tears.
Zubov hobbled over on his good leg to ruffle Sokolov's wet hair.
“We're not out of the woods yet, though,” Sokolov said.
“I don't think I can manage a hike across the Caucasus,” Zubov said. “It was nice knowing you, folks.”
“Stop moaning, I'll get us all out,” Sokolov said.
“How?” Klimov asked.
“The Hummer. It's in better shape than it looks. And there must be a first-aid kit inside.”
“You could use a few stitches yourself,” Klimov said. “We just need to make it to the nearest village. I made a few provisions. Your teammate, Mischenko, is on standby with another helicopter.”
“Your managerial skills are second to none. Let's get going, then.”
RETURNING TO THE Hummer, they pushed the vehicle back on its wheels and replaced the burst tire with a spare. Sokolov turned the ignition and the Hummer's engine started. Notwithstanding the cracked windshield, everything was good to go.
“I should have recognized him,” Constantine muttered.
“Whom?” his brother asked.
“Imran. Back outside the tent. Even with the face mask on, I should have identified him by his height and build, his gait and his eyes. It was him. Victor. Also known as Hermann Weinstock. Frolov's henchman. I could've nailed him.”
“We'll nail him next time.”
FOR A COUPLE OF hours, they drove east. Visualizing the map, Sokolov headed towards the border of the Biosphere Reserve's restricted area. The winding path made for a tough rally course. Edging along the bank of the Mzymta River, Sokolov eventually stumbled upon an unpaved road that snaked through the mountains. He got his bearings right, steering clear of checkpoints. Leaving the national park behind them, the car lumbered along the serpentine road. Nightfall loomed, making each sharp turn treacherous.
Finally, after twenty kilometers, as the Hummer neared a village, Sokolov saw a bus stop at the side of the road. He pulled over and walked up to the rust-eaten bus shelter where a gray-bearded, elderly man with a cane sat waiting on the bench.
“Hello, old man,” Sokolov said. “You been waiting long for that bus?”
The wrinkled old man eyed him cautiously from head to toe.
“About half an hour.”
Sokolov whistled. “It won't be coming here for ages. Do you have a phone I might use? I've got a helicopter ride to catch.”
EPILOGUE
1
DRESSED IN A SMART Trussardi wool suit, Daniil Klimov strolled down Theater Drive, where it all began. From across the street, he inspected the damaged façade of his Ministry, still covered in scaffolding. He reined his emotions and walked on. He couldn't afford to be late for the show—and his rendezvous.
He entered the Bolshoi Theater after the crowd of spectators had already flocked from the grand lobby into the main auditorium. Klimov slipped into a private box a few minutes into the start of Mikhail Glinka's opera, A Life for the Czar. He allowed himself to enjoy the uplifting overture, knowing that nobody would disturb him. He had arranged to buy out every seat in the box.
Act One finished, evoking rapturous applause from the crowd in the parterre below. As if on cue, another man joined Klimov in the box and sat next to him.
“You know, I'm too old for this cloak and dagger stuff,” said Saveliy Frolov, the FSB Director. “Do you expect to bargain with me over your prison term?”
“No, your resignation.”
“I have to tell you, Klimov, your sense of humor is failing you. I could have had you locked up in Lefortovo. Instead, I agreed to see you, only for you to play a prank on me?”
“I'm not kidding, Saveliy. I want you out. You're well past retirement age anyway. You can step down and retain a measure of dignity. Otherwise, I will bring you down so hard that you will be the one doing jail time.”
“I'm not sure that I follow you. Are you trying to blackmail me, you sucker?”
“I recovered some interesting data files from Dedura's palace,” Klimov lied. “For example, your Cayman bank statement.”
“You're bluffing.”
“Wanna bet? I haven't even touched upon your involvement in the bombings or the treasure-smuggling operation.”
Klimov spent several minutes enjoying the opera while Frolov remained silent.
On stage, the Russians prepared to vanquish the foreign invaders and crown Mikhail Romanov as their czar.
“What do you want?” Frolov said at length. His voice betrayed no hint of defeat, but he was finished. His baggy face turned a shade of purple.
“Like I mentioned, I want you to hand in your resignation to the Acting President first thing tomorrow. I want all of the charges against me and the Sokolov brothers dropped, including those with Interpol and the FBI. A clean slate. And I want you and your gangsters never to come near me or my men again. The Red List should be disbanded.”
Frolov rose from his seat and departed.
Alone, Klimov watched the rest of the opera. It culminated with the choir of Russian people singing: “Glory, glory to you, Holy Russia!”
2
THREE WEEKS LATER, Michelle Valery sat at a table in Applebee's Times Square. She looked out on 42nd Street, anticipating the familiar face amid a throng of passers-by.
Ever since the phone call an hour ago, she had struggled to contain her excitement. The tips of her fingers grew cold, so she placed her hands around the hot cappuccino cup. She glanced at her miniature wristwatch. It was a few minutes before the scheduled meeting. She felt as if she was going out on a date, except that the anticipated encounter was unlike anything of the sort. Days like this only came about once in a lifetime.
Gazing outside, she hadn't noticed the two young men enter the restaurant and approach her table.
“Michelle,” said Eugene Sokolov. “I'd like to introduce you to Constantine, your cousin.”
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