The mashrutka stopped by the entrance to the Metro. They got off along with the other passengers, taking the escalator down to the station platform. It was the first chance they had to talk.
Before Scorpion could speak, Iryna said, “I know. I saw the photos in the paper. Now what?”
“After tonight, you’ll have a different identity and it’ll be harder to track us.”
“How?”
“I’ll take care of it. You stay out of it.”
“Because it’s dangerous?”
He didn’t answer.
“Those men, three of them. You killed them,” she said, taking his arm and leaning close so he could hear her as the train approached.
“Yes,” he said.
“It was the way you did it. Just like that,” snapping her fingers.
“What about it?”
“Good,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nyvky
Kyiv, Ukraine
It took Scorpion less than an hour to find the podlog. He’d simply hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to a late night club that was “pryvatnyy,” private, and “ne dlya turistov,” not for tourists.
“This is not club for you, pane. No turistiv. Bad people,” the taxi driver said.
“That’s the kind I’m looking for. Peryeiti,” Scorpion had told him. Go.
The taxi took him to a hole-in-the-wall club called the Crocodile. It was in a square building on a hill in the Verkhny Gorod, near the Golden Gate museum. Once inside, Scorpion told the first prostitute who approached him what he wanted. In exchange for a thousand hryvnia slipped into her cleavage, she came back with a slip of paper with the address of a counterfeiter, a podlog, that she said was named Matviy, who did fake identity cards. He left the club and took the Metro to the Tarasa Shevchenka station in the Podil district, then walked down to a warehouse area near the river.
The street was dark, icy, traffic lights swaying in the wind. He passed an open lot where a shadowy red-lit shape moved on the snow; a group of street boys huddled around a trashcan fire. They spotted Scorpion, ran toward him, knives glittering from the streetlights, and surrounded him. Their clothes were ragged, their dirty faces looking hungry, almost feral, but they scattered like wolves when he showed them the Glock. He waited till they were gone before finding the address of a small storefront with apartments above.
The shop was locked, dark, but there were lights in the frost-covered windows of the apartment above. Scorpion pounded on the shop door until a voice from upstairs finally yelled out, “Khto tse?”
“Ya ishchu Matviy,” Scorpion shouted up in Russian. I’m looking for Matviy. He pounded on the door again. “It is cold. Open up!”
“Ischezni!” the voice said. Go away.
He pounded even harder then, and began kicking the door. A minute later a light came on in the shop.
“Dosyt!” he heard someone grumble. Enough.
The door opened, and without waiting, Scorpion shoved his way inside.
Matviy was a small, stoop-shouldered man in an old sweater. He looked at Scorpion and motioned him to follow. They went into a small workshop at the back lit by a single hanging lightbulb. Scorpion showed the podlog what he wanted.
He watched Matviy download the two photos of Iryna, one in the blond wig, one in the pixie cut, from his cell phone camera to Matviy’s computer. Although the stoop-shouldered man didn’t say anything, Scorpion was certain that despite the change in appearance in the photos, he recognized Iryna. Just to be safe, while he worked, Scorpion planted a bug near the back of the computer. Twenty minutes later Matviy handed over two new Ukrainian posidchenaya osoby identity cards for Iryna: as a blonde, she was Valentyna Khodyneva; as a dark-haired pixie, she was Nadiya Zhdanova. Scorpion watched as Matviy deleted the images from his computer.
“These don’t exist,” he said in Russian as he paid Matviy. “She does not exist. I do not exist.”
“Pazhalusta, this is my business. No one will ever know,” Matviy replied.
“You do not want me to come back,” Scorpion said, then left.
He walked around the corner of the building and waited, putting an earplugged Bluetooth to his cell phone set to the bug he had planted at the back of Matviy’s computer. A moment later he heard Matviy make a phone call. Although Scorpion couldn’t understand the Ukrainian, it was enough. Dammit! he thought. He went back to the shop, opened the door with his Peterson key and burst in on Matviy, who turned toward him, cell phone in hand.
Matviy’s eyes opened wide. He dropped the phone and tried to run, but Scorpion tripped him, then went back and hung up the phone. He took out the Glock and Matviy stared at it.
“Ya govoryu, prezhde, I said before you don’t want to see me again,” Scorpion said, motioning Matviy to sit with his hands on the worktable. Matviy came and sat hesitantly down. Holding the Glock to his head with his left hand, Scorpion picked up a microscope he had spotted earlier, probably used for fine detail work, and smashed the base of the microscope down on Matviy’s index finger, breaking it. Matviy cried out.
“Zatknis!” Scorpion hissed. Shut up. He jammed the muzzle of the Glock hard against Matviy’s head, then smashed the microscope down twice more till the index finger was a bloody pulp. Matviy moaned but didn’t cry out.
“If I have to come back again . . .” Scorpion said in Russian as he headed for the door, not finishing the sentence. The look in Matviy’s eyes made clear he didn’t have to.
Scorpion wasn’t sure what to do next. He needed more information on the Lianhuay company, but didn’t want to risk using WiFi for the Internet. There was always a chance someone was scanning, and there were too many people chasing him. He walked toward the Metro and took it back to the Internet café on Prospekt Chokolovsky. Finding an open computer, he looked up the Lianhuay Trading Company. There wasn’t much.
The company, headquartered in Shanghai, produced light and heavy machinery. Lianhuay’s local Kyiv office was headed by Li Qiang, a graduate of Tsinghua University in Beijing with a Masters in Economics from USC. There was a photograph of Li Qiang, a thin Chinese man with glasses. There was something about him that, as Rabinowich would have said, wasn’t kosher. What was it? He was looking at the entry, knowing it had to be there, but didn’t see it. Then he read the brief description on the company’s web page again and had it.
Tsinghua was one of the best universities in China, equivalent to a top Ivy like Harvard or Princeton. So why would the Lianhuay company’s managers post an up-and-comer like Li Qiang to such a minor market for China as Ukraine? Not to mention his masters from USC, which meant Li spoke English. He was someone the Chinese would want to post to San Francisco or New York or London. Having Li Qiang in Kyiv was like having Einstein work as a high school teacher. Unless he was Guoanbu, the Chinese CIA, in which case the Lianhuay company was a front. But Gabrilov was SVR. The Guoanbu and the SVR were mortal enemies. So if Gabrilov regularly called Li Qiang, the real question was, who was running whom?
Were the Chinese running Gabrilov or the other way around? And what the hell did this have to do with assassinations and a crisis in Europe?
At that moment he looked up and saw Iryna. She was on the Internet café TV, wearing a black wig cut the way she had worn her hair before, the way people were used to seeing her. Scorpion clicked a few times on his computer to bring the TV image up on his computer screen. She was saying something vehemently, those incredible lapis eyes flashing, and he felt a twinge in his groin at the thought that he’d been in bed with her only hours before.
She was pointing to their photos in the newspaper and obviously denying that they’d had anything to do with Cherkesov’s assassination. The camera pulled back to show Kozhanovskiy standing next to her. He was speaking now. Scorpion recognized where they were: the dining room of the apartment above the pub near Kontraktova Ploscha.
He wished he could understand what they were saying. The screen switched to show a stormy meeting in the Ver
khovna Rada, members screaming and shoving each other, then cut back to Kozhanovskiy. So it was something to do with the election, he thought. For now, he had to decide who to go after: Gabrilov or the Chinese?
He needed intel. Badly. He thought about Vadim Akhnetzov. Lianhuay did heavy machinery business in Ukraine. Akhnetzov had to have heard of them, he thought. It was long past time he connected with the man who was paying him anyway. He sent an emergency e-mail to a cover Gmail account Akhnetzov had given him and logged off after deleting any record that he had been on that computer.
One overarching question nagged at him: Why would the Chinese want Cherkesov dead?
The short man wore a Swiss hat and a red plaid scarf draped over one shoulder. Hardly a typical Ukrainian male outfit, and Scorpion thought he might be gay. The man was standing on the Nyvky Metro platform, looking around every few minutes.
“Ne oborachivaisya,” Scorpion said, coming up behind him. Don’t turn around. They were near the edge of the platform.
“Ya rodom iz Finlyandii,” the man said. I come from Finland.
“I used to like the jazz in Esplanade Park,” Scorpion said in English, completing the sequence. The man started to turn around, and Scorpion stopped him. “I said, ne oborachivaisya.”
“I’m Boyko,” the man said in excellent English. “You Collins?” he asked, using Scorpion’s cover name from when he had first met Akhnetzov.
“Never mind who I am,” Scorpion growled. “Tell me about the Lianhuay Trading Company.”
“What about them? They’re a Chinese company. Officially, they sell machinery and do construction projects.”
“And unofficially?”
“We’ve heard stories about illegal arms and trade intelligence. They’re said to pay well.”
“Are they Guoanbu?”
“Well . . .” Boyko shrugged. “They’re Chinese.”
“Why would the Chinese want Cherkesov dead?”
Boyko started to turn around. Scorpion stopped him.
“You think they were involved?” Boyko asked.
“You tell me,” Scorpion said. “What did they have against Cherkesov?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Could be the new gas pipeline.”
“What pipeline?”
“There’s a proposed new pipeline from Kazakhstan through Ukraine to supply natural gas to additional countries in Europe. The Chinese and the Russians are both bidding for the contract.”
“How was Cherkesov involved?”
“At Ukengaz, it was our understanding that if Cherkesov had been elected, he’d have gone with the Russians.”
“Sounds like a motive to me,” Scorpion said. “Why didn’t Akhnetzov tell me about this?”
“Don’t use his name. Just Vadik. I have to tell you, he’s not happy.”
“Neither am I.”
“Not at all. May I smoke?”
“Set yourself on fire for all I care. Let’s talk about Vadik and the Chinese.”
“He wasn’t sure it was relevant,” Boyko replied, lighting a cigarette.
“Excuse me? The Russians and the Chinese are in competition for a pipeline worth billions. Cherkesov and Ukengaz are poised to give it to the Russians and you don’t think that gives the Chinese a motive? What planet are you from?”
“The SVR never mentioned the Chinese,” Boyko said. “This is awkward talking this way. Can I turn around?”
“No,” Scorpion said, putting his hand on Boyko’s back and moving a half step behind him. “Pyatov was a decoy to pull me off the scent. It also made me the fall guy. Everyone’s looking for me.”
“Makes you less effective. You failed. Vadik’s ready to call this whole adventure off.”
“No deal,” Scorpion said. “Our agreement was no Russian invasion. If I can stop it, he still owes me the rest of the money.”
“I’ll tell him. Anything else?”
“Who set me up? The SVR? Tell Vadik if it’s him, his money won’t save him.”
“It wasn’t him. He said even now he wants to believe in you.”
“So who was it? Gabrilov or the Chinese?”
“Gabrilov’s no genius. Maybe the Chinese?” Boyko shrugged.
“Tell me about Li Qiang.”
“You’ve made progress,” Boyko said, starting to turn his head, then stopped. “You’re right. He’s head of the Guoanbu in Kyiv.”
“I know that. Tell me what I don’t know.”
“He has a male friend.”
“How thrilling.”
“No. A special male friend,” Boyko said, emphasizing the word.
“And who’s this special friend?”
“His name is Ruslan. Ruslan Ardiev.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He performs at the Androgyne Club. Frankly, his body’s better than his voice. If not there, there’s a massage place, the Congo, on Berezhanskaya; goluboi, of course,” he added, using the Russian slang word for gay. “And watch out for Li Qiang’s bodyguard, Yang Hao. Never leaves his side.”
“Dangerous?”
“We’ve heard stories,” Boyko said.
They heard a train coming and felt a rush of cold air ahead of it as it approached the station.
“Are we boarding?” Boyko asked.
“Just wait,” Scorpion said.
“I’m not comfortable with the train coming with you behind me.”
“Funny, I’d’ve thought you’d love it,” Scorpion said.
Boyko snorted. “Cheeky boy. Not before I see what you look like.” The train stopped and opened its doors. “Are we boarding?”
“Tell Vadik what I said.”
“I will. Are you coming, Collins?”
“You go,” Scorpion said, giving him a nudge forward.
Boyko got on, turned and looked at Scorpion, who had turned and was walking away on the platform.
“Pity,” Boyko said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Expo Plaza
Kyiv, Ukraine
The Lianhuay company office was on the ninth floor of an office building across from the Expo Plaza Exhibition Center. There were two security cameras covering the front entrance, but only one at the back. Scorpion used his Leatherman tool to chip a toehold in the wall at the back of the building, then climbed up and disabled the camera. A tap on his Peterson universal key and he was inside.
The building was dark and empty. His footsteps echoed as he climbed the stairs to the Lianhuay office. There was an alarm on the office door, but it was only single channel. It took him less than a minute to disarm it. The door lock was a card reader. He used an NSA card and waited while the software read the magnetic reader setting and opened the lock.
Before entering, he used his flashlight to check for motion detectors. He didn’t see any and went inside. It was hard to tell whose office was whose; the name plaques were in Mandarin, which he couldn’t read. But hierarchy was the same no matter what language it was in, he thought. Li Qiang would have the best office, and so he made his way to a large corner office with window views of the Expo Plaza across the way.
He turned on the desk computer, plugging his NSA drive into a USB port. The NSA software automatically figured out how to log itself into any computer with administrator privileges. It also scanned the password files for account passwords and provided English translation on the fly for all major languages, including Mandarin. While the software was running, he checked the desk drawers. In one of them he found a Chinese M-77B 9mm pistol, checked to see if it was loaded and put it back. He went through the rest of the drawers but found nothing of interest.
He hit the Start and the All Programs arrow and pressed the NSA Ctrl key combination for translation to English. Then he saw it. A client software program on the PC for the CCB Bank. Based in Beijing, CCB was one of the largest banks in the world.
Scorpion accessed the bank’s website with the software client, letting the NSA software provide the user ID and password. There were multiple accounts. This was go
ing to take a while, he thought, settling down to open them one by one. Then he got lucky. In the second account he opened, he spotted an electronic bank transfer of $2,500 in U.S. dollars to an account in Pravex Bank, Kyiv. He didn’t bother with the NSA software, but letter by letter translated the Cyrillic account name. It belonged to Oleg Nikolayevich Gabrilov. He did a Find all search and saw repeated transfers to Gabrilov’s account in amounts ranging from $1,000 to $6,500 over the past two years.
Well well. Scorpion smiled to himself. The only thing better than having a potential Joe’s balls in a vise, he thought, was getting proof he was being paid by the wrong people.
After copying the files to the plug-in drive, he shut down the computer. Before leaving, he used an antiseptic wipe to clean everything he had touched and then rearmed the security camera. Ten minutes later he was out on the snowy street on his way to the Nyvky Metro station.
So it looked like Gabrilov was Li Qiang’s double agent in the SVR. It wasn’t about politics. It was about money. Natural gas. Maybe if he could produce the real assassin, he and Iryna would be off the hook. Maybe.
The street was cold and empty and he shivered inside his coat. Not far from the Metro station he saw an open café, stepped inside and ordered chorna kava, black coffee, piping hot, and gulped it down. The TV on the wall behind the counter showed a press conference going on in Washington. The President of the United States was speaking. He was warning Russia not to invade Ukraine. As a precautionary measure, he announced that he had ordered the Joint Chiefs of Staff to raise the level of American military readiness to DEFCON 2, the second highest level before war.
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