The Kobalt Dossier

by Eric Van Lustbader

  Then, as she kept digging in Kata’s phone, she came across the set of nude selfies Kata had sent to Baev. Well, what do you know. Lyudmila was right about the men in this snake pit. She needed to take control. She had her leverage against Dima safe and sound. Now she had a perfect method of meeting with Baev out of his office. She took another deep swig of vodka and admired Kata’s body. Funny how life works, she thought. My encounter with Kata is turning out to be one of the most fortunate ones since I crossed over the breach.

  She stood, ignoring the ice pack as it spilled onto the tiled floor. Time to get ready.

  *

  It had been a long, trying day for Director General Baev: a blizzard of administrative matters to attend to that would usually be handled by his adjutant, Ilya Ivanovich Gurin, now dead and forgotten. The increasingly contentious back-and-forth with Darko Kusnetsov. According to his boss, the head of FSB, Evan Ryder was still very much alive. Why hadn’t Kata dealt with her yet? he had asked himself. Why hadn’t she answered his texts? Then the afternoon was inundated by intel and sitrep updates, none from Kata. But then the remit she was on would never show up on normal FSB channels, or anywhere else for that matter.

  The text came from Kata just as he was leaving the office. He stared down at the screen of his private mobile, read the single line.

  surprise tonight! im waiting

  Finally, he thought, good news. And felt a concomitant stirring between his legs.

  *

  Darkness had drowned Moscow by the time Baev drew up into Kata’s driveway. As always, he gave the street a cursory look. It was the same, a couple of vehicles parked, including a black SUV farther down the block.

  Using the key she had given him, he let himself in. At once, he smelled the perfume she always wore for him. His nostrils dilated, her scent leading him from the entryway, down the hall, and into her living room.

  And there she was, sprawled on the curving purple velvet sofa, looking at him, an enigmatic smile on her beautiful face. Only it wasn’t Kata’s face. He stopped in his tracks, staring at her bandaged nose, then at the rest of her, dressed in Kata’s clothes—specifically her black vinyl dress.

  His face darkened and he scowled. “Where’s Kata?” he said sharply. “Who the hell are you?”

  Kobalt lifted her right hand to show him the huge square-cut emerald glistening on her middle finger. “You want to know who I am, Director General Baev? I’m Kata Romanovna Hemakova.”

  His laugh was singularly uneasy. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I’m the new Kata Romanovna Hemakova.”

  His frown deepened. “Come on now. Where is Kata?”

  “Kata is dead,” Kobalt said. “I killed her.” She lifted the cattle prod with her other hand. “I shoved this down her throat.”

  Baev stared at her for the longest time, then he produced the small handgun he always carried with him. But before he could aim it at her, she was up. The prod touched his chest, and he winced.

  “Don’t make me do it, Director. I honestly don’t want to hurt you.” She never took her eyes off his face. “But believe me I will if you give me no choice.”

  He had started to hyperventilate. “I …”

  “You know I wouldn’t be here now in her house you paid for, wearing her clothes you paid for, unless she was dead.”

  His hyperventilating would not stop. “I … I believe you.”

  She took the gun from his unresisting fingers.

  “As to who I really am I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. Five days ago Dima was scheduled to take me to see you.”

  For a moment, a quizzical look, then as recognition dawned, he whispered, “Kobalt? You’re Kobalt.”

  “Not anymore. Kobalt is dead. You’re going to make sure that from tomorrow on my name is Kata Romanovna Hemakova.”

  “But you …” He started to feel faint. “How did you—”

  “How did I kill Kata? My dear Stanislav Budimirovich—or should I call you Slava? Actually I like that better. My dear Slava, you made the fatal error of sending Kata to terminate me.”

  “I …” He shook his head emphatically. “But I didn’t.”

  “She came after me.” She cocked her head. “How d’you explain that, Slava?”

  He ran his fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

  “You can’t. Because you’re lying.” She shrugged. “But even if by the slightest chance you’re telling the truth it doesn’t really matter because here we are, you and I.”

  He opened his hands wide. “No, no, I am not lying. Just let me think for a moment …” He put his head in his hands and went still.

  The expression in his eyes led her to believe him. She waited and watched, could practically see his quick mind putting together the pieces of a puzzle.

  After a moment his head came up. “This is the truth, Kobalt. I sent my adjutant, Ilya Ivanovich Gurin, to Kata with a remit to kill Evan Ryder. And for Kata to kill him, which she did, for I believed he was about to overstep himself.” He gave her a piercing look. “Now I’m thinking he already had. It had to have been Gurin who betrayed you to Omega. He had the means, and the motive. And he assigned Kata to kill you, not Ryder, behind my back.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “And had me attacked in Istanbul? Why would Gurin concern himself with me to this ultimate extent?”

  “Istanbul?” He looked perplexed, but then waved away his confusion with a swipe of his hand. “You’re here, that’s all. He failed. As to why … jealousy is a strong motivator, especially in those who are overly ambitious. He knew I coveted you as an agent. He knew I was planning to take you away from Dima.”

  She cocked her head. “I’m listening.” Because now what he was saying made perfect sense.

  Baev nodded. “Gurin was terrified that I was going to replace him. He assumed once I had you there would be no place for him. And he was right.”

  “You said he was your adjutant.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “A desk jockey I am not.”

  Baev snorted. He was regaining his equilibrium. “I’m through being interrogated. What is this all in aid of?”

  She showed him what she had discovered at Ermi’s office. “I’m sure your boss will be interested in what a loose ship you’ve been running. What Dima has been doing right under your nose.”

  Baev blanched as he looked through the Turkish lawyer’s damning ledgers. Then he thought of Kusnetsov’s bloody cleaver: steel, flesh, bone. Whack! “This … this,” he spluttered, clearly knocked off his pins again. His eyes were wild when he looked back up at her. “What is this, blackmail?”

  “Only in a way,” she said. “It’s not what I plan to do to you, Slava.” Her smile was predatory. “It’s what I plan to do for you.”

  He was still in shock at Dima’s treachery; the blatant murders of his people, the crushing of so many remits … A shudder went right through him. “And in return,” he said hoarsely, “what do you want?”

  53

  CITADEL I

  The four horsemen of death for a stealth mission were to be avoided at any and all cost: Do not go in fast. Do not go in heavy. Do not go in without backup. Do not go in without an exit strategy. Ben knew, after the fact of course, that many was the time that Evan courted two, sometimes three of the horsemen, and had emerged not only alive but victorious. He, however, had never courted any when they were in the field together. If he was to be perfectly honest with himself, stealth was not his forte. Evan knew that, and yet she had sent him to infiltrate the Omega citadel at its backside. He supposed that she had no other choice. That didn’t stop him from being terrified out of his skin. This situation was so far out of his expertise he felt like a bull in a munitions manufactory. As he crawled through the thick underbrush, he could only hope that Lyudmila was better at stealth than he was.

  They were using old-school pin lights because LEDs carried too far. They came out of Lyudmila’s capacious backpack, which appeared to be stocked with ju
st about everything they needed. They were within a hundred or so yards from where the storm drain was supposed to be when the black sky lowered and rain began to beat down on them in sheets. Visibility instantly collapsed to near zero. On the plus side, the foliage foamed up steam around them, obscuring them as efficiently as thick fog. But by the time they reached the outlet, water was rushing out of it, inundating the surrounding area, causing them to slip and slide. More than once the steep slope necessitated one of them anchoring themselves by wrapping their hand around the trunk of a sapling while pulling the other up to safety. But that safety was relative as the saplings bent precariously under the weight of the two of them. One actually uprooted, causing them to backslide a couple of yards.

  Eventually, however, they made it to the concrete lip of the outlet and for a moment stood to one side, catching their breath, watching the water cascading out and down the slope.

  “Well?” Ben yelled in Lyudmila’s ear to make himself heard above the twin roars. It was like being trapped behind a waterfall.

  Lyudmila turned her head, yelled back. “We’re already drenched to the bone.”

  So saying, she turned and, pressing her hands against the low arch of the drain, began to haul herself through. Immediately her legs were underwater up to just below her knees. Ben followed her. Using the same technique they slowly made their way through the channel. One good thing, Ben thought, was that the ferocity of the downpour had washed all the muck out, so the footing here was better than it was on the slope outside. However, the channel got progressively narrower, as if it wasn’t a cylinder but a funnel. At the end, they were obliged to continue on hands and knees, the water periodically breaking over their heads, making it difficult to breathe.

  They at last made it through. They had to grip the brick surround first with their hands and then with their boot soles in order to free themselves from the tumbling flow. But now they were in deeper water, and they pushed themselves up to the surface. Gasping and choking, they hauled themselves out of what they soon realized was one of three connected cisterns—water collection receptacles that served the citadel above.

  Exhausted, they lay on the floor for what seemed long minutes, regaining their breath and equilibrium. Then suddenly, unheard in their approach, there were three armed figures looming above them.

  A small, compact woman with coal-dark eyes and a feral grin bent down, her gold cross swinging, and ripped Lyudmila’s backpack off, threw it into a corner. “My name is Hel. Welcome to the cita—”

  Lyudmila scissored her legs around Hel’s ankles so violently she took Hel off her feet. She was up and into the second figure, elbows and knees flashing, while beside her Ben took on the third. She had disarmed the fallen man when she saw Hel’s throwing knife at her hip and slid it out. Hel kicked her in the side and she staggered back. Hel was drawing her sidearm when Lyudmila grabbed Ben and ran.

  Behind them, one of the figures was up on one knee, aiming at their fast disappearing backs. She was about to fire when she felt Hel’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Stand down,” Hel ordered, squeezing her shoulder.

  The soldier under her command immediate complied but looked up at her questioningly.

  “Now we have what we want.” Hel grinned at the other two. Both had regained their feet. “It’s the hunt we all love, isn’t it?”

  And together, silent as stalking tigers, they set off after their prey.

  54

  SUPPER AT TURANDOT

  Dima received the text from Director General Baev as he was about to close up shop for the evening. Slightly miffed, he grabbed his overcoat and passed through the door to his office. He had big plans for this evening. It was the three-month anniversary of his affair with Nadya. Three months was some kind of modern-day record for him, or for her, whichever way you wanted to look at it. Dima chuckled to himself. He had to admit, there was something special about Nadya, a je ne sais quoi that caused a certain frisson so powerful that it negated his thwarted hots for Kobalt. Maybe it was the way she lifted her legs just before she orgasmed or how hard her nipples grew during sex, or the way she moaned that sent shivers through his groin. Whatever is was, he thought he was crazy about her, that he might just install her as a permanent part of his life, because lately, he couldn’t imagine life without her musky scent and hot body.

  Baev was waiting for him in the lobby. Whatever it was, Dima mused, it had better be short. He had booked a premium box at the Bolshoi, followed by supper at the opulent fin de siècle–style restaurant, Turandot. As if that wasn’t enough, he had hired a boat for the night, to cruise them along the Moskva while they twined in the captain’s cabin until the sun came up.

  It had taken him fully three days to make sure every element was aligned. Now the evening was upon him and, instead of hurrying home to change into formal attire for the ballet, he was hot on the heels of his boss as their footsteps echoed through the entryway, and out the door.

  A sleek black armored Escalade sat at the curb, its huge engine thrumming. Sergey, one of Baev’s cohort of driver-bodyguards, opened the rear door for them. Baev slid in and Dima followed. The door thunked closed. The Escalade moved off as soon as Sergey was behind the wheel.

  “What a week I’ve had,” Baev said in his most conversational tone. “Entirely bracing.” He opened a built-in humidor on his side of the SUV, handed a cigar to Dima, bit off the end of his own, and lit up. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he handed over the chunky silver lighter with the FSB seal engraved on it, and Dima got his own cigar going.

  “Kusnetsov’s recent purge put the fear of God into everyone.” Baev blew smoke up toward the ceiling, creating a man-made cloud. Watching it slowly form, he said, “Every once in a while, even we, the guardians of the State, require a maximal lesson in the wages of the deepest moral corruption—the selling of secrets, exploitation of one’s position, betrayal of your fellow operatives.” Abruptly, he turned to Dima, “Don’t you agree, Dima Nikolaevich?”

  “I … I do indeed, Director.” Dima’s head bobbed up and down like one of those American bobbleheads that somehow made their way into Russian teenagers’ lives.

  “We are lucky, you and I, to have staked out our claim to the moral high ground. I cannot tell you, Dima Nikolaevich, how much pleasure that gives me day in and day out as we navigate the cesspool of national crime and international espionage.”

  Dima cleared his throat, “Director, may I ask where we’re going?”

  “What’s the matter, Dima, don’t you like surprises?”

  “As well as the next man,” Dima said, not at all sure he meant it. “It’s just that I have been planning this evening for almost a week.”

  Baev was now wreathed in smoke. “Ah, yes, the lubricious Nadya.”

  “An anniversary celebration,” Dima said laconically.

  “Then congratulations are in order, my friend!” Baev nodded. “And a celebration, of course! Most warranted.” He sighed. “You know, in many ways I envy you, Dima. You have it all: no wife, no children, a girl toy of inestimable value. You are, what? Six, seven years younger than me?”

  “Seven, Director.”

  “Mm.” Baev nodded. “Life is good, yes?”

  “It is,” Dima agreed.

  For the next several minutes, the two men enjoyed their cigars in companionable silence.

  “By the way,” Baev said, seemingly apropos of nothing, “have you heard from Kobalt?”

  “As a matter of fact I have,” Dima replied, relieved to be talking business. “She has returned to Moscow. I will be debriefing her tomorrow morning.”

  “And the limpet you set on her?”

  “Zherov. Yes, well, he was shot as he walked toward his apartment.”

  Baev’s head swiveled toward Dima, his expression dark. “Here, in Moscow? Have you found his assassin?”

  “Not yet. Kobalt didn’t see anything when she dropped him off.” He found it interesting that his boss didn’t ask if Zherov was a
live or dead, merely assumed the worst. “Zherov is still alive, Director, safely out of surgery. As soon as he’s lucid I’ll debrief him myself.”

  “Excellent.” Baev visibly relaxed. “We cannot countenance one of our own being attacked, especially not inside the borders of the Federation.”

  The SUV had pulled out of the traffic flow, slowed as it pulled into the curb.

  “Well, here we are, Dima Nikolaevich.” The rear door swung open. “I promised you a surprise and a surprise you shall have.”

  *

  The aqueous blue-green, the humidity-heavy, the mineral-laden air struck Dima like a physical blow. Immediately, he shrugged off his overcoat, slung it over his left arm. He wondered what in the world they were doing in the Moscow aquarium. It was after hours, the place devoid of visitors. Only a skeleton work crew was in evidence. None of them paid Baev and Dima any mind, as if they were used to escorted VIP visitors at this time of the evening. The man who had met them just inside the side door clearly knew Baev well. He smiled thinly when Baev introduced Dima. “Good evening,” their escort said in response. “Colleagues of Stanislav Budimirovich are always welcome to our small island sanctuary.” His smile widened. “Amid the busy bustle of the city we offer an oasis of calm and repose.”

  And indeed the atmosphere was slow-paced and serene, Dima thought, as their escort ushered them down aisles with tanks of all kind of sea creatures, some familiar, some Dima had never set eyes on before. Everything under the sea was a mystery to him, and slightly scary.