by Mark Henshaw
Did you follow me here, Miss Stryker? he wondered. What a happy surprise that would be.
Kyra’s safe house
Moscow, Russia
The door closed behind Kyra’s truck and the garage went dark. She had taken a winding route back, running surveillance detection as she went, though she was sure she needn’t have bothered. Had the GRU or any of the other security services picked up her tail, they would have swarmed her vehicle as quickly as they could have called in the help.
Kyra had taken three hours to make her way to the safe house and the sun had set more than an hour before. The garage was shrouded in darkness as she killed the headlights. The woman sat back in the seat, not bothering to unbuckle her restraint. Her eyes adjusted to the dark.
Kyra hit the steering wheel with her fist, then again. She pounded on it, as hard as she could. Then she began to yell in anger, cursing the Russians for their brutality and their skill at it, slamming her hands into the wheel as she did. Her hands began to protest, aching more and more with each strike against the truck. Finally she stopped when the pain was too much. Her chest began to heave. Kyra leaned forward, placed her forehead against the steering wheel. She refused to cry, much as she wanted to.
She’d lost track of the time, how long she was in the truck. Kyra finally emerged and walked into the mudroom, letting her keys fall on the floor. The keypad demanded her full attention before letting her into the house, but Kyra’s thoughts disorganized themselves again once she heard the computerized lock open. She entered, the metal door closing itself behind.
The bathroom on the second level was enormous, with a glass-enclosed shower and a tub large enough to disappear in. Kyra thought about cleaning up for the first time since Berlin. She took stock of herself in the mirror. Her right arm ached. She pulled her sleeve up and realized that a massive bruise, black with a green and yellow border, had spread across the muscle. There was ibuprofen in the cabinet and she didn’t bother to count how many of the red oval pills she took. The sink water tasted of metal.
Barron had been right. She was never going to get near any of the Agency’s assets. The Russian knew exactly who they were, had too much manpower, and knew the terrain far better than she ever could. Kyra had no advantage, no angle to play that would let her seize the high ground even for a few minutes.
I don’t think I can do this, Jon, she told her friend, wherever he was.
Maybe not, he agreed. The Russians aren’t amateurs. Fighting them is a team sport on a good day, and this isn’t a good day. You don’t have any help.
I got away, she replied. Again.
Dumb luck, he chided her. That soldier draws his gun a little faster and you’re dead. You miss with that Taser and you’re dead. One of that guy’s teammates has a little better aim with a pistol at a hundred yards and you’re dead. You didn’t plan for any contingencies. You didn’t even scout the area before you went in. You shouldn’t be sitting here.
I had to try to reach Puchkov. She was my best chance to find an asset who could help me find you, Kyra protested to the voice in her head. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. How am I supposed to figure out where you are, or if you’re even still alive, if I can’t get to any of our assets inside the GRU before the Russians?
You’re not thinking, Jon’s voice replied.
What do you mean? she asked.
Why do you always run straight in? he asked.
Kyra’s mind focused in a single moment. Run straight in? It was true. She’d done it every time, in Caracas when she’d gotten shot . . . in Beijing, when she’d been asked to save the Agency’s most valuable asset . . . at the CAVIM chemical plant near Morón when the president had wanted to know what the Iranians had smuggled into Venezuela. She’d gone in each time, always finding a way to go through the enemy’s security, and always being discovered before she could get back out. Training, Jon, and more dumb luck than she deserved had gotten her home, but she’d had to fight her way out every time. Now she’d finally come up against an enemy that was too skilled to fight. Kyra could go straight at the Russians, but she would never be able to get in.
I’m no coward, she reminded Jon.
Bravery and intelligence are not the same thing, he countered. And neither one matters without a plan.
So how do I do this? she asked. How do I find out what happened to you? How do I stop Lavrov?
She could almost see her partner smile, that arrogant look he couldn’t suppress when he’d figured out the answer before everyone else. That soldier you took down with the Taser. Did you notice anything about him?
Kyra sat back and stared at the ceiling, hands behind her head. Military haircut, hard as steel . . . he carried a Makarov sidearm.
And who uses Makarov pistols? Jon’s voice asked her.
The pistol was the same as the ones the men at Vogelsang had carried. Spetsnaz, Kyra realized. The GRU control the Spetsnaz. Those were Lavrov’s men at the market.
Don’t you think it’s interesting that the GRU is arresting traitors on Russian soil? Isn’t that the FSB’s job? he seemed to say.
Kyra cocked her head. That was interesting. Grigoriyev, the FSB director, hated Lavrov, the GRU chairman. Why would he let Lavrov run the operations to capture all of the CIA’s assets? she wondered.
What makes you think Grigoriyev even knows what Lavrov is doing? Or that he’s cooperating? Jon asked. What did I teach you about analyzing the enemy?
Never assume the enemy is monolithic, she replied, answering her absent partner’s question. Never assume that he knows everything that his own people are doing.
Kyra stared into the mirror, not seeing anything as she tried to focus her mind. She needed to think, but the stress of the past days had cost her all of the energy she had. The fog of sleep deprivation and jet lag was closing in on her. She needed to think. Rest was the only good answer for that, but for now she would have to rely on the false energy of caffeine and adrenaline. She didn’t know how long she would sleep if she closed her eyes and she didn’t want to give free time away to Lavrov.
Kyra stumbled over to the kitchen and fired up the coffeemaker on the counter. The Russian brands in the cabinet were black and bitter, and Kyra drained three cups to the dregs once the machine started to produce. She poured a fourth mug, set it down on the kitchen table, and looked at her list. There was only one name left on it.
Her hands were shaking hard, her eyes fighting her attempts to focus on the page, and her mind jumping from idea to idea every few seconds. When the caffeine finally passed through her system, Kyra knew that she had reached her limits. The dark living room was close and the couch looked soft, but she refused to surrender so completely. She stumbled up the stairs to the second level, wandered into the first bedroom on the right, fell on the bed, and let the oblivion take her without a fight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Botkin Hospital
5 Second Botkinsky
Moscow, Russia
Lavrov had never seen one of his Spetsnaz look so battered outside of a training accident. The man’s comrades had brought him to the hospital themselves rather than trusting him to an ambulance crew, and the Botkin was one of the better hospitals in Moscow. It was the facility to which most foreigners in the country came for treatment and was well equipped by Russian standards.
The soldier was lying in a reclining bed, an IV in his arm, dripping saline and morphine both at a slow rate. Both of the man’s eyes were badly bruised, deep blue, black-and-green circles surrounding them and stretching into his forehead and cheeks. The surgeon had stanched the bleeding, set his nose, and stitched up the torn flesh on the back of his neck. He’d assured Lavrov that the soldier would suffer no permanent damage from the Taser, something about high voltage but low amperage. But the man’s face would take weeks to heal up. He’d tried to refuse the painkiller, but the soldier’s team leader had finally told him that there would be no shame in taking it. The morphine had hit his system and the wounded commando had slumped into a deep sleep almo
st immediately.
Lavrov regretted having to wake him, but the soldier would understand, even if the doctor did not. The surgeon had not wanted to lower the man’s morphine drip, but Lavrov gave the order. It was too hard to think and focus one’s swollen eyes while riding a morphine high.
“This one?” Lavrov asked, holding up a photograph, the tenth in the stack.
“Nyet,” the soldier replied, his voice strained.
Another photo. “This one?” Lavrov asked again.
“Nyet.”
Lavrov pursed his lips in frustration. Hundreds of women had entered Moscow from Berlin through the international airport in the last two days. The general decided to skip to the one woman he was interested in most. If the soldier didn’t identify her, an aide could handle the rest of the stack.
He rifled through the pictures until he found the only one he wanted. He held it up. “This one?”
The soldier stared, trying to focus on the picture. He forced his head to move forward, bring the image an inch closer. “Da.”
“You are sure?”
“I only saw her for a few seconds, and that while running. She had blond hair, not red, and pulled back away from her face, which was thinner. But it could be the same woman.” The soldier let his head fall back on the pillow.
“Very good,” Lavrov said. “We are most proud of you. You have done your duty.” He was surprised the younger man had recognized the American woman through his haze. It had taken the GRU chairman almost six hours going through the photographs to find the one he imagined could have been the same woman he had met on the embassy roof. He would have preferred to let a subordinate take care of sorting through the photographs, but everyone else who had seen the woman was back in Berlin, except Maines. Lavrov didn’t trust Maines to pick her out without the threat of pain, and Lavrov had to reserve that tool for another request he might have to give the traitor if his next inquiry turned up empty.
“No, General,” the soldier protested, “I failed in my duty. She escaped. I want to return to duty and assist in her arrest.”
“Do not worry about that, Captain,” Lavrov assured the injured man. “The operation is not done. We do not reinforce failure, but one failure is not the end. You will yet have your chance.”
“Thank you, General,” the young soldier replied.
Lavrov nodded, patted the young man’s hand, then looked at the photograph. She is here. Miss Stryker is in the Rodina, he thought. The thought sent a happy thrill up his spine. It was so rare to find an American who was not overly cautious in this business, who was inclined to attack and trust in her skills to finish her mission.
You are a bold one, devushka. But where are you?
FSB headquarters
Moscow, Russia
“You humiliate me in front of the president, and now you wish a favor?” Grigoriyev asked, astonished. Lavrov’s arrogance was boundless. The FSB director was tempted to cut off the call, but decided that would be unwise. Soothing a wounded ego was a poor excuse for passing up an opportunity to collect some political intelligence that might prove valuable sometime in the future, possibly sooner than he might expect.
“I would not call it a favor,” Lavrov objected. “The FSB is charged with internal security. I merely wish to know if a particular woman has been seen entering the American Embassy here in the city. Surely that is a trivial request for you.” The FSB kept the Western embassies under a constant watch. The GRU director no doubt was pained that he had to come to Grigoriyev for that information after having ridiculed him twice in the last day.
“And yet you are making the request yourself,” Grigoriyev pointed out. “Yes, it would be trivial for me to get you an answer, but not so trivial for you to pose the question. So I presume you have identified the woman who has been putting your men in the hospitals?”
He was sure that Lavrov was frowning on the other side of the phone. “I have,” Lavrov replied, surprising the FSB director. “I know where she entered the country, which flight, and when it landed. But making an arrest would be much easier if I knew whether she was operating out of the American Embassy or that of a U.S. ally.”
“Ah,” Grigoriyev replied. “Of course, we would need all of the information you have on this woman to make any positive identification.”
“Of course,” Lavrov conceded. “I can have a courier ferry the file to your office immediately if you are willing to assist me.”
Assist you? Grigoriyev thought. The man was infuriating. Even when asking for information, the GRU director could not help but twist the conversation to place himself above the person whose help he needed. Still, if my people could catch this woman before Lavrov . . . yes, that would do nicely, he thought. Arresting the lone CIA spy in Moscow would shift the balance of influence that had tipped so very dangerously in Lavrov’s favor. “Without question, the FSB stands ready to assist you, General,” Grigoriyev said. “The security of the Rodina is more important than our small differences.”
“Without question,” Lavrov replied. “Expect my man to arrive within the hour.”
“I will admit him without delay,” Grigoriyev assured him. “We will have an answer for you as quickly as we can manage.”
“Your assistance is appreciated.”
“Do svidaniya, General.”
• • •
Lavrov hung up his phone. Losing that small bit of face would be worth the sacrifice if Grigoriyev came back with anything useful. Lavrov’s own men were watching the U.S. Embassy, but it was possible that Stryker had entered some other allied embassy, the British or Canadian buildings most likely. His men were not watching those. Grigoriyev’s were.
If Stryker was cautious, inclined to self-preservation, the smart move for her would be to leave the country. Her best defense had been secrecy, and the Puchkov operation had stolen that. So it was possible that Grigoriyev’s men would catch Miss Stryker trying to escape the Rodina. Lavrov doubted she would try to fly out through any of the major airports. With her cover identity blown, she would expect the FSB would be watching all of the major transportation hubs for hundreds of miles around Moscow. No, more likely she would try to cross into one of the border countries in a car, or perhaps even abandon her car and try to hike across. It had been done before and the FSB would be watching.
But he didn’t think Stryker would run.
The general retrieved another beer from his small refrigerator, cracked the bottle open, and took a long swig before leaning back in his chair. The young woman knew about his operations. She needed to be neutralized somehow, and Lavrov was prepared to enlist Grigoriyev’s help to reach that goal. The FSB director didn’t need to know all the details, and he would be happy to have any part in Lavrov’s success. So Lavrov would throw him those crumbs. The bigger operation promised glory enough that he could be generous to his old enemy. Besides, being a small part of another’s victory could taste more bitter than suffering failure alone, and this game was his and Stryker’s to play.
She was a move behind. He had confirmed that she had tried to contact one of the top few names on his list of traitors. Had she tried to contact Topilin? Possibly. Based on the time she had entered the country, he suspected that she wouldn’t have been able to get to the now-dead man’s dacha before Sokolov had arrested the turncoat. She might have visited the dead man’s dacha and found it already sacked. If so, his men might have been able to grab her there, had Sokolov left a sentry team.
Lavrov frowned. That had been a lapse, but an understandable one, he supposed. Sokolov had had no reason to suspect anyone would have been trying to reach Topilin, and Lavrov had told him that there would be more names to come. The colonel likely had wanted to have all his men available for the next arrest, not leaving them in the woods watching a ransacked cabin. But if Stryker had tried to reach Topilin, then it would be a sure sign that Lavrov had assessed her mission correctly and he knew who her next target must be. The only question now was how to steer her where he wanted her
to go.
• • •
Grigoriyev didn’t call for four hours, time enough for Lavrov to finish half a bottle of Viski Kizlyarskoe–brand whiskey, a single malt produced in Daghestan. It helped the afternoon pass more smoothly. The GRU chairman had long since grown tired of vodka, as had most of the elites who could afford better. He swirled the glass, sniffed at it, and smelled . . . what was that? Honey, he thought. Lavrov downed the dregs in the glass. Yes, much better than vodka, easier on the throat, if not the liver. He would never admit it, of course. Vodka was the national drink and had the weight of history on its side. His people loved their liquor and vodka had a special place in the Russian mind and heart. The Kremlin had been cracking down on alcohol consumption for years now, trying to keep the people from drinking themselves to death, but the leadership had never seriously considered prohibition. No, that was out of the question. The Americans had tried that once, with feckless results, and they didn’t love their alcohol as the Russian people did. It was said that when Russia had been given a choice between Christianity and Islam, it had chosen the former only because the latter prohibited the drinking of spirits.
The secure-line telephone finally sounded. Lavrov set the glass on the desk and answered the call. “Ya slushayu vas.”
“Arkady Vladimirovich.” It was the FSB director.
“Thank you for responding so swiftly.”
“Of course, but you will not like the information I have to report,” Grigoriyev advised. “My counterintelligence officer reports that none of our surveillance teams have observed a woman matching the photograph you provided entering the American Embassy during the last week, or any other embassy of any country allied with the Americans. If she is CIA and still on our soil, then she is operating out of some other location. We are reviewing our files now and drawing up a list of possible sites where she could be.”
Lavrov narrowed his eyes. He’d expected that answer but he disliked it all the same. It would make finding the woman more tedious. “You have my thanks, Anatoly.”