“It’s hanging on his berth.”
Rostropovich looked sheepish. “How foolish of me. Perhaps I’m not really awake.”
“Sleep is a precious thing. Maybe you should have stayed in your bed.”
“I’ll go check on the patient. Then I’ll decide—back to my bunk or bad coffee in the mess.”
Rostropovich offered a wan smile as he shouldered his way past. The Chechen watched him until he vanished inside the isolation room then glanced at his watch. He counted down the seconds—three, two, one…
Right on schedule, the ship’s whistle and general alarm bell blasted the first of seven times followed by one prolonged burst that split the early-morning air.
Chapter 23
July 27—Moscow
For perhaps the first time in his life, Mikhail Subkov felt true fear. Not that he hadn’t been afraid many times; he had. He’d found himself in many dangerous situations as an undercover cop. Even in internal affairs he’d stared down the barrel of a gun held by a man who had been cornered and at the end of his rope. And he’d lived to tell the tale. No, this fear was different. This wasn’t just the sweaty palms, racing heart, dry mouth and tunnel vision when the adrenaline kicked in. He felt the fear of potential failure.
Director Sergun had summoned him to a meeting. Not at GRU. At a place that made Subkov shudder, hardened as he was, for what it represented—FSB headquarters in Lubyanka Square. Ostensibly, FSB reported to Sergun and the GRU, but old habits die hard. Born from the ashes of the KGB, FSB’s roots went deep into the culture of the old Soviet Union. That the agency still made its home in the building that housed one of Russia’s most notorious prisons—Lubyanka—said volumes about how it still operated. The FSB was old school—secretive, brutal, intimidating, and in reality it answered directly to only one person, the president of the Russian Federation.
Subkov wasn’t going soft, but he and a small cadre of men—Admiral Orlov being one of them—believed Russia was better than that. The Russia they envisioned was refined, cultured, sophisticated. A world power in its own right, not simply due to brute force. Despite the reforms of Gorbachev and Yeltsin, Russia under Putin was more like the old Soviet system, coarse and barbarous. Subkov had developed a plan to discredit Putin, which would make room for a new philosophy in the Kremlin, new leadership, a return to the glory days of the Russian Empire. But now he worried. Sergun rarely issued a summons to praise good work. And a meeting in Lubyanka Square made the summons doubly troubling.
Eschewing a staff car, Subkov walked to the subway, automatically checking to see who might be following. Using the Metro was dangerous because he could easily be trapped underground. But it also worked to his advantage, quickly revealing those who might be following. No one showed any interest, even when Subkov got off the train as if he’d forgotten something, then turned and stepped back on just as the doors closed. He rode standing, allowing him a better view of the cars ahead and behind, alert to passengers moving between cars. If a team had been assigned to him, it was good. He couldn’t discern a tail of any sort in the time it took to get to the station at Lubyanka, one stop past Tverskaya, the station near his apartment.
He climbed to the street and quickly made his way to FSB’s offices. Inside the building, he passed through security and was directed to a conference room on the fifth floor. When he arrived, several men were already seated around the oval table. He knew them all, of course, most of them personally, others more by their dossiers. He had not reached the position he held without knowing all the players around him. Nikolai Mylinov, FSB counterintelligence, sat at one end. To his right sat Alexander Perushkin, FSB investigative directorate. Across the table Viktor Smirnov, the head of SVR’s Directorate X: Scientific and Technical Intelligence, chatted in low tones with his counterpart at FSB, Boris Kushkin, a sight that surprised Subkov. A dour-faced General Sergey Olechenko, the head of FSO, the federal protection service, sat bolt upright in his chair as if a steel rod had been rammed up his ass. Notably absent was Subkov’s own boss, Fyodor Pedrovsky.
Though he technically outranked Mylinov, Subkov nodded obsequiously—it was Mylinov’s turf, after all—before gesturing to the empty chair next to Perushkin and raising his eyebrows.
“Welcome, Mikhail,” Mylinov said with false warmth. “Please take a seat. I’m sure General Sergun will be here shortly.”
“The general is here,” a deep voice said from the doorway.
Sergun, a small, bearded man who looked more like a professor at Lomonosov than a highly decorated army general, entered the room with a sprightly step and took the seat at the opposite end of the table from Mylinov. Subkov knew the kindly blue eyes hid a shrewd intelligence and ruthlessness that many underestimated. Rumor said the general’s IQ was north of 160, and Subkov was convinced his memory was photographic.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Sergun said. The sincerity in his voice made them all feel as if they’d had a choice in the matter. “We have a problem. I’ve asked you here because it directly concerns all of you, and you’re the ones that I trust can fix it.”
The general had the attention of every man in the room, and he met each man’s gaze in turn. A problem? Subkov wondered why Sergun hadn’t come straight to him. Unease stirred the contents of his stomach. Sergun inclined his head slightly not toward Mylinov as Subkov expected, but toward Perushkin.
“We may have a mole in our midst,” Perushkin said mildly.
The effect on Subkov was just as devastating as a neutron bomb, but he kept his emotions in check and watched the reaction of the others. Shock registered on only two faces—Olechenko’s and Smirnov’s—which meant that the rest of them knew, or suspected, why Sergun had called the meeting. Surely they could hear Subkov’s heart beat faster. It would be so like the FSB to have some sort of electronic monitors in these offices to measure such things.
“Boris’s office received a report from a scientific ship, the Akademik Shirshov,” Perushkin went on. “An unexpected guest boarded in Greenland and disembarked at the Temp naval base on Kotelny Island.”
“Boris’s office? Why not yours, Alexander?” Subkov looked across the table. “Is this true?”
Kushkin nodded. “The ship just put into port at Tiksi yesterday. The cook called the local FSB office to complain about someone aboard he said was an FSB agent.”
“I don’t understand,” Subkov said. “Why call you, Boris?”
Kushkin sighed. “The local administrative office regarded the man’s complaint as trivial. Apparently, he said the stowaway had stolen some of the captain’s personal supply of tea.”
“A matter to be taken up with the chief mate, or perhaps the captain himself, surely,” Subkov said.
Kushkin nodded. “Frankly, I think he was trying to cover his own ass and save his job. But since the Shirshov is a research vessel, the local office directed the complaint to the Science and Engineering Department—me.”
“The Shirshov’s mission was under your auspices, was it not?” Perushkin said, his thin, pinched face directed toward Subkov.
“Well, yes, under Victor’s direction, of course,” Subkov said, waving a hand at Smirnov. He hadn’t heard that anything aboard the research vessel had been amiss, and the ship had left Greenland three weeks ago. Why was he just hearing about this now? His mind raced, looking for a way to turn this to his advantage. “I don’t see how this concerns us. If this intruder, this petty thief, identified himself as an FSB agent, it would seem the problem is yours, Alexander, yours and Nikolai’s.”
Subkov saw Sergun’s eyes glitter as he gazed from Perushkin to Mylinov and back.
“Of course we are investigating,” Perushkin said smoothly. “But the fact remains that you are responsible for the operation. If this cook’s tale is true, then I’m appalled at the lack of security aboard a vessel under your command, Mikhail.”
“And if, as Boris suggests, this cook is trying to cover up his own thievery?” Subkov said.
“Lapses in security like this are how presidents are assassinated,” Olechenko said as if rousing from sleep. “How do you expect me to do my job of protecting our leader properly if you let this sort of chicanery happen?”
“With all due respect, General, I hardly think this was a threat to President Putin,” Subkov said.
“Maybe not,” Olechenko said, “but it’s an odd coincidence that the day your research vessel arrived at Kotelny, one of our Udaloy-class destroyers left. On a mission blessed by Putin.”
Subkov felt sweat drip down his side, but he kept his face impassive. “Yes, we’re aware of the surprise visit to the Americans, and the president’s approval. But it has nothing to do with our research project. And, again, I don’t see how that is a potential threat on the president.”
“What exactly was the Shirshov’s mission, anyway?” Perushkin said, ignoring the exchange.
Subkov shrugged. “Victor has scientists aboard the Shirshov and at Temp who are experimenting with new technology. They require a substance discovered on Greenland. I cannot tell you any more than that. You understand, of course.”
Perushkin’s face clouded and he turned to Sergun. “General, if we’re to conduct a thorough investigation into this breach, then we—”
“Enough, Alexi,” Mylinov said quietly. “General Sergun knows what we need.”
Sergun looked around the table then directed his attention to Subkov. “Mikhail, I cannot compel you to reveal the nature of the Shirshov’s mission at this moment. But surely you see the concern.”
“Of course, General,” Subkov said, “but again, I have to point out that it appears to be a problem for the FSB, not us.” He glanced at Smirnov, who shook his head slightly and raised his eyebrows. He went on. “If there had been a problem aboard the vessel, the captain or first mate would have gotten word to Victor or myself. And if there was an unauthorized FSB agent aboard, then that’s where the investigation should start. However, I will start our own investigation at once.”
“No, Mikhail,” Sergun said, “you won’t. I don’t want anyone to suggest that you might have been less than thorough or compromised in any way. I’ll handle it myself and compare conclusions with Niko once Alexander has completed his investigation.”
Mylinov sat back, folded his hands on his stomach and nodded, and Perushkin’s ferret-like face spread into a feral grin.
Sergun wiped it off with his next comment. “I agree, Mikhail, that something doesn’t smell right in all of this. It hardly seems likely that you or someone on your team would set an operative loose to spy on your own mission. What would you have to gain? But even if you knew nothing about this intruder, it would seem your security precautions do need review.”
Subkov bowed his head quickly, thankful the dressing down wasn’t worse. “Of course, General. You’re right, as usual. I’ll personally see to it.”
Sergun swiveled. “And Victor, you’re not blameless in all this. I expect better from SVR.”
Spycraft in the Sluzhba vneshney razvedki, the foreign intelligence agency, was among the best in the world, often beating the CIA at its own game. Subkov was disappointed, too, that he was hearing all this for the first time here, in front of Mylinov and Perushkin. He’d wanted to handle the entire mission—the fewer people who knew what they were up to the better—but he didn’t have enough resources of his own. So in the spirit of cooperation he’d included Victor and SVR, based on the recommendation of someone he trusted. One of the inner circle. But Subkov knew if anything went wrong he was the only one, along with his friend Admiral Orlov, who would be hung out to dry. The rest of them would remain anonymous.
Christ, the situation was polnyi pizdets, what the Americans called “fubar”—fucked up beyond all recognition. A spy! On his research ship. And now they were looking for a mole. Subkov would have to be doubly careful from now on. He only hoped that for the time being he’d deflected enough suspicion to give him room to move. If Sergun or Mylinov put a surveillance team on him, he’d never be able to communicate with Orlov.
Chapter 24
July 27—Seattle
Using every alley shortcut I could think of, I blew through two red lights crossing major thoroughfares and turned so often my palm was beginning to blister from twisting the steering wheel. My heart rate was still fifty percent above normal when I assured myself that I’d lost the Mercedes five minutes earlier. Now I faced the problem of what to do next. I’d been off my meds so long—forgetfulness being a hallmark of ADHD—that my thoughts raced randomly like a flock of Roadrunners chased by a befuddled and frustrated Wile E. Coyote. I reached for the spare prescription bottle in the glove compartment and swallowed one of the pills dry.
Though I had no proof that Grigori and Marko had anything to do with the ghastly scene inside Masha’s apartment, the timing seemed far too convenient to be coincidence. Finding the two of them virtually on my doorstep served as fair warning that I was likely next. So, the logical—now that the meds were about to kick in—course of action was to run, go somewhere they couldn’t find me and start over. Live to fight another day and all that. Vanishing would mean cutting all ties to my life in Seattle. Could I do it? Was I prepared to leave the girl and her mother Anya to fend for themselves, to face the monsters who’d killed Masha? I couldn’t help anyone, least of all myself, if they killed me.
The savagery of the knife work on Masha’s body and the stench of charred flesh and spilled blood filled my head, triggering a rapid pulse, shallow breathing and a tightening band of steel around my chest that squeezed the breath out of me. Fear shot through me, lighting up my amygdalae like a pinball bouncing between a couple of bumpers. Suddenly, it wasn’t Masha’s blood I smelled, but my own. I lay on a hard floor, a checkered pattern of blue sky above me slowly turning to gray and dimming to black, feeling the pain of a bullet that had slammed into me with the force of a miniature locomotive.
A horn blared, blowing away the movie screen in my head like tissue, revealing a car, nose down, screeching into an intersection on smoking tires and locked wheels, sliding toward me as the Toyota blew through a stop sign I hadn’t seen. My pulse leapt another fifty percent as I punched the accelerator and tensed, waiting for the blow and the sound of rending metal. When it didn’t come, a glance in the mirror revealed the other car stopped in the spot on the road the Toyota had vacated fractions of a second earlier. Adding an exclamation point to his feelings, the driver thrust his middle finger skyward out his open window.
Once I was well out of his sight, I pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine until the shakes stopped. The nightmares had been bad enough, but I’d never had a flashback with my eyes wide open before. Hard to say which was more unnerving, that or nearly getting T-boned by another car. After several minutes, though still wobbly, I started the car and pulled out, spurred on by the thought of the Russians on my tail.
Stopping at the first drug store I found, I purchased two throwaway cell phones and a couple of cards loaded with minutes, using most of the cash I had on me. Next stop was a car dealership downtown with a large enough used car lot that the Toyota would go unnoticed for days. If they towed it, I didn’t care. I hated the car, anyway. I retrieved a small key from a magnetic box stuck under the hood. A short walk took me to the bus terminal at Stewart and 8th Avenue.
On the edge of Seattle’s downtown, the bus station reflected the city’s worst. Layers of grime coated everything so thickly the site would have to become an archaeological dig to unearth the original surfaces. The noxious odor of defeat and failure smacked me between the eyes as soon as I walked in, whiffs of its components discernable as I moved—unwashed bodies, urine, garlic and rancid grease from the restaurant next door, and the fecund scent of mold and mildew feeding on all the dirt and Seattle’s moist environment.
The usual complement of crazies wandered the lobby, panhandling or simply striking up bizarre conversations with the few frightened normal travelers, themselves or imaginary friends and fo
es they hallucinated from the dark recesses of their short-circuited brains. I tallied more than a dozen homeless people, at least two of them schizophrenic. A hippie chick and her stoner boyfriend sat on the floor with their backpacks on consulting a map. A grizzled Vietnam vet, wearing a well-worn M65 army field jacket, the name over the breast pocket faded to a ghostly unreadable image like the man himself, peered at a bus schedule in front of the ticket counter. A middle-aged man in a stained wife-beater and Duck Dynasty ball cap sprawled on a bench next to a frowzy woman in a loud print dress the size of a two-man tent with hair a reddish-orange color not found anywhere in nature. A clean-cut college kid sitting in a corner softly strummed a guitar. A Latino ex-con in a black tank top with tats covering both arms and most of his neck sat stony-faced across from the trailer trash couple. And a neatly dressed Native American couple with two small children sat quietly taking it all in with expressions of contempt at how badly the invading white man had fucked up the natural beauty of what had once been their land.
Since I’d changed careers, from public affairs consultant to driving a paper route, folks like these had become my peeps. After losing it all—job, marriage, my son—I’d nearly become one of them, homeless and destitute. The only thing separating me from most of them was mental illness. I’d managed to get through the worst of the depression that had followed on the heels of all those traumatic life events, had come out the other side stronger, though leery of daylight and strangers offering candy. Now, though, I wondered if I still might end up like them.
I ignored the spindle-faced ticket agent behind his counter and a small, frail old Filipino man dressed in the uniform of a security guard standing by the departure door to the bus lanes out back. I headed for the bank of lockers that TSA had decided weren’t worth a terrorist’s time and used the key I’d taken from the car. I pulled out the small black duffel and slung the long strap over my head and across my chest without checking the contents.
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