The Fall of Moscow Station

by Mark Henshaw

  Sokolov pulled back, apparently intimidated. “There are two others,” he said. “Two men. They are in the infirmary under guard.”

  Grigoriyev pointed at Cooke and Barron. “You will release her and take us to them. You will also tell me where General Lavrov is.”

  “He is at the Khodynka Airfield,” Sokolov said. “He left here a half hour ago. If he is not there now, I do not know where he might be.”

  Grigoriyev made a curt nod toward Kyra, and Sokolov unfastened her restraints. “I am pleased that you will leave this place,” he told her, almost a whisper. “I did not want you to die tonight.” He stood up and helped Kyra to her feet. “If you follow, I take you to the infirmary.”

  • • •

  Kyra followed Sokolov down the stairwell, afraid to say anything to the man. She saw security cameras at every turn, but wasn’t sure whether the Aquarium hallways and stairwells weren’t filled with audio taps and bugs in every corner. She didn’t want to say anything that would incriminate the man. The colonel had just set up his commanding officer as a traitor to his country and she didn’t want Lavrov to find some way to lay the same crime at Sokolov’s feet.

  The infirmary was in the new GRU headquarters and the crossover between the old and new buildings was unmistakable. The Aquarium had smelled of old must, its architecture a testament to Soviet design. The new building was clean and modern, brightly lit with new carpet and light-colored walls. Kyra could have mistaken it for a U.S. government facility had the lettering on the signs not been in Cyrillic.

  Sokolov turned a corner and slowed. He pointed at the door ahead. “They are inside,” he said. “The man who came with Lavrov from Berlin, the traitor, he was injured before he came here. They break his hand with hammers. The other, they shoot him in his leg. I know the men they left with him. They are efficient and lose any pity for others long time ago.”

  “Thank you,” Kyra said.

  Barron pushed open the door to the infirmary.

  • • •

  It looked like any doctor’s office, with a nurses’ station, a waiting room, and a hallway leading back into private offices and other rooms. A faint antiseptic smell pervaded the air and Kyra’s stomach churned a bit.

  Grigoriyev filed in behind her, approached the nurse on duty, and had a short conversation with her. She hesitated, saw the armed men behind the FSB director, and decided that compliance was the wiser course. She pointed down the hall.

  Grigoriyev marched ahead, Kyra and the other Americans behind. The Russian made a few turns, then stopped. A pair of guards, hard young men, flanked the last door on the left. Kyra’s instincts told her they were Spetsnaz.

  “You know me?” Grigoriyev asked in Russian, approaching the soldiers.

  “Yes, sir,” one of the guards confirmed.

  “Good. Open the door.”

  “Nyet, Director. We have orders from general—”

  “General Lavrov’s orders do not apply to me. I am in charge of counterintelligence and internal security in the Rodina. The men in that room are American civilians, and therefore the GRU has no jurisdiction here. Open the door.”

  “Nyet, Director. We cannot without orders from the general.”

  Grigoriyev’s patience snapped. He barked an order in Russian that Kyra didn’t catch. Grigoriyev’s men drew their sidearms and leveled them at the Spetsnaz guards, who drew their own weapons on instinct and pointed them at the FSB director, both sides yelling at each other, frenzied orders demanding each side surrender their pistols.

  The guns hadn’t cleared the holsters before Kyra felt Barron’s hands grab her from behind, and the man almost threw her and Cooke into a doorway, then positioned himself between them and the guards.

  Grigoriyev raised his hand and his men fell quiet. His eyes tore into the GRU officers. “You are outnumbered and there is nowhere in this hallway to take cover. If you shoot me, it will be a race to see whether my body or yours reaches the carpet first.” The guards stared at the half-dozen guns pointed at their heads. “The Americans are coming with me. Lower your guns and I will report to your superiors that you did your duty. No charges will be brought against you.”

  The Spetsnaz took another five seconds to consider the offer and work out the math. They lowered their Makarovs, replacing them in their holsters.

  “A good decision. Now step aside.”

  • • •

  The room was small, barely larger than an average patient’s room in any American hospital, the equipment similar except for the strange lettering on every console. The lighting was dim and it took several seconds for Kyra’s eyes to adjust, her night vision coming to bear.

  Alden Maines lay in the first bed, unconscious, a large clear bag of morphine running into his forearm through an IV drip. He was handcuffed to the bed rail, which saved Kyra the trouble of asking Grigoriyev to take care of that piece of business.

  A curtain hanging from a sliding rail separated the American criminal from the patient in the far bed. Kyra stepped forward, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. She took the white cloth in her hand and pulled it aside.

  Jonathan Burke was lying in the bed, dressed in hospital scrubs, an IV drip of his own attached to his arm. Kyra rushed forward, kneeling down by his bed. He turned his head to the side, saw Kyra, and he smiled a bit. “Heard the yelling. Figured it was you. Didn’t think anyone else could make Russians want to shoot each other,” he said, his words slurring together. Whatever drug they were feeding into him was industrial grade and she thought it was amazing that he was awake. A few minutes more and she might see him fade back into sleep.

  She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You idiot.”

  “Good to see you too—” His eyes shifted and looked behind her. Kyra heard a gasp, then felt Kathy Cooke push in next to her. Kyra stood and moved to the side. “Hi, Kathy—” Jon started.

  “Shut up, Jon,” Cooke said. She leaned over, her eyes playing over his face, and then she kissed him.

  • • •

  Grigoriyev pushed his way over to the end of Jon’s bed and lifted the clipboard hanging off the end. He scanned the page, then handed it to Barron. “What’s it say?” Kyra asked.

  “Gunshot wound to the leg,” Barron said. “Looks like whoever shot him treated him on site with some coagulant, the Russian equivalent of QuikClot. Surgeons here sewed that up. But . . .” He paused. “They tortured him.”

  “Hurt too,” Jon muttered.

  “What did they do to him?” Cooke asked. Her voice was cold, venom in her tone like Barron had never heard.

  “He’s been treated for dehydration and pinpoint burns, probably from electric shocks,” he said, reading off the paper. “Kathy . . . they crushed his knee.”

  Kyra looked down at the sheet. Jon’s right leg formed a strange angle under the white cloth. “Didn’t work,” he muttered. “Asperger’s gives me a low pain threshold. I kept passing out. So they gave me painkillers to keep me awake, but I couldn’t feel anything so I didn’t care what they did. Drove ’em crazy.” He laughed quietly.

  “I don’t know what they’re giving him, but whatever it is, I want some,” Barron said. “That must be some quality stuff, and judging by the drip rate, he’s getting plenty.”

  Cooke did not smile at the joke. “Director Grigoriyev,” she said, “I expect you to help us evacuate this man to the United States immediately, where he can receive proper medical attention under the supervision of our own doctors.” Her voice left no doubt that she was not asking a question.

  Grigoriyev nodded. “We will move him to our best hospital. Our surgeons there will examine and treat him until an arrangement for a medical flight can be made,” he said. “If you are satisfied, I need to find General Lavrov.” He stared at Kyra. “And you are coming.”

  “No, she’s not,” Barron objected.

  “I need her there,” Grigoriyev said. “Lavrov ordered her execution because she is a witness to his illegal arrests of Russian citize
ns. When he sees that she is with me, he will know that I have the evidence to remove him from command of the GRU. If she is not there, he might not believe that she lives and will resist arrest.”

  “He might resist anyway,” Barron told him.

  “He might,” Grigoriyev conceded. “But if she comes, he might surrender.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Barron replied. “That’s not a request.”

  “That will be acceptable.”

  “Clark, I’ll stay here with Jon,” Cooke said. “Director Grigoriyev, I do not speak Russian. I will need an officer who speaks English to help me coordinate the medical flight and other arrangements.”

  “I believe Colonel Sokolov speaks English. He will help you.” The FSB director put his hand in his coat and felt the sidearm he was carrying. “Now, we go to Khodynka.”

  Khodynka Military Airfield

  One quarter mile northeast of GRU headquarters

  The hour had passed and Sokolov still had not called. Had the man forgotten? Lavrov doubted that. Even if a soldier could forget a direct order so easily, the colonel had always been an efficient officer, a man who paid attention to the details. He would have remembered. Something was amiss at the Aquarium, but there were no sirens, no alerts. The general stepped outside the hangar and looked past the line of barracks to the old headquarters. The skyline of buildings looked like they always had in the dark.

  Lavrov pulled out his own cell phone and dialed the number to Sokolov’s office. There was no answer. He tried the GRU operator and had him connect the call to the interrogation room. That phone stubbornly continued ringing until Lavrov disconnected. What is going on over there?

  “General Lavrov.” The crew chief approached, saluted, then nodded toward the Mi-26 helicopter. “Maintenance is finished, the tank is full, and the cargo loaded. We will tow it out and it will be ready to travel once your pilot arrives and performs his preflight check”

  “Very good.” Lavrov said. “The pilot . . . he should have been here by now, correct?”

  The crew chief wiped his greasy hands on a rag. “He was due five minutes ago. No one has called to explain the delay—” He stopped, looked out into the darkness, and pointed. “Maybe that is him.”

  Lavrov twisted his head, following the imaginary line from the crew chief’s finger out onto the tarmac. A line of cars was crossing the runway in front of the boneyard. “No,” Lavrov said. “There are too many cars.” He stared at the approaching convoy, then turned back to the hangar. Whoever was coming was no friend.

  I have friends of my own here, he thought.

  • • •

  “There.” Grigoriyev’s driver pointed to the open hangar. “There is a transport still inside.”

  Grigoriyev answered nothing. The driver accelerated a bit, closed the distance to the metal building, and finally stopped, parking the car to block the Mi-26 from being towed outside. The other four cars fanned out, parking in a staggered formation behind the director’s vehicle.

  • • •

  Lavrov looked out through the helicopter’s windshield and counted a dozen men stepping out of the cars, none wearing a military uniform. Grigoriyev. He saw the old FSB director dismount and stand, hands in his overcoat, his breath visible in the cooling air.

  There was a woman with them. Lavrov cursed. Stryker. Grigoriyev had stopped the colonel from carrying out his orders. This would be a problem.

  The general turned to the Spetsnaz squad standing behind him, carbines suspended from their vests. “You understand the orders?” he asked. The Special Forces soldiers nodded in silent agreement. “Very good.” Lavrov turned and walked down the cargo ramp.

  • • •

  “Arkady!” Grigoriyev called out. “We must talk.”

  There was no answer before the GRU chairman came around from behind the transport. He approached the FSB chief and stopped, making a show of counting the men behind him. His eyes lingered on Kyra. “Why are you here, Anatoly?”

  “I am here to arrest you.”

  “I think not.”

  “You are a traitor to the Rodina, Arkady. You have sold yourself to the CIA for money and you killed Stepan to cover your perfidy. I do not care that you tried to extort the Americans for more money, but you made illegal arrests and executions of Russian citizens to prove your leverage. Your CIA ‘source’ was actually a dangle that you swallowed. The people you expelled were just common diplomats. The CIA cadre here in Moscow remains intact, while you have given the U.S. government an excuse to expel our officers from Washington, including our ambassador, and move against every intelligence operation we are running on their soil. You have left us at a severe disadvantage that will cripple us for years and the price you paid for this failure was the blood of loyal Russian citizens. Therefore, you are charged with treason and murder,” Grigoriyev said.

  “The president will not agree—” Lavrov began. He shook his head slightly, a laugh of derision escaping him.

  “I saw the letter, Arkady . . . the letter which you burned. And he will see it.”

  Lavrov’s eyes narrowed. “It was a falsehood, created to implicate me. I burned it so that would not happen.”

  “Or so there would be less evidence of your treason.”

  “Less evidence?”

  “Your Colonel Sokolov tells me that you took the quarter-million euros that were recovered with the note, which Miss Stryker admitted under questioning was meant for you. Why would you do that, Arkady, unless you considered it payment due for services rendered?”

  “Money recovered from spies is put to other purposes. You know that,” Lavrov protested.

  “Indeed. So I presume you took it directly to your chief of staff and ordered him to account for it and have it deposited?”

  Lavrov pursed his lips and said nothing for several seconds. “No,” he finally admitted.

  “I know,” Grigoriyev told him. “We asked the man. If my men search your jeep and this helicopter, will they find it?”

  “I presume she told you those lies?” He nodded at Kyra.

  • • •

  Lavrov’s eyes turned on Kyra, hatred visible on his face now. “What are they saying?” she asked Barron.

  “Grigoriyev is twisting the shiv,” the NCS director replied. “Nice work on the setup. Everything he did has two explanations and our friend here is running with the one that makes him look like a sellout.”

  “They hate each other,” Kyra said, her voice a whisper. “It’s easy to think the worst about someone when you’ve already primed.”

  • • •

  “You are under arrest, Arkady. You will surrender—”

  “I will not,” Lavrov told him. He raised his hand.

  A thunderous avalanche of boots on metal echoed inside the hangar, sounding like a battalion of soldiers storming in from all sides. A squad of Spetsnaz officers exploded out from behind the helicopter, moving to covered positions behind the Mi-26, carbines raised. Grigoriyev’s men began yelling, fanning out, and pulling their own sidearms. Barron grabbed Kyra’s arm and pointed toward Lavrov’s jeep, still parked a few dozen feet from the help. “Go!” he ordered. She sprinted for the vehicle, the senior officer and a pair of FSB officers behind. The Russians knelt at the corners of the vehicle, handguns raised.

  Grigoriyev and Lavrov stood unmoved in the middle of it, staring at each other.

  “What now, Arkady?” Grigoriyev asked.

  “You are outnumbered and outgunned,” Lavrov told him, explaining the obvious. “I would think the wiser choice would be apparent.”

  “And what would you have me do? Let you leave here with a fortune in euros and technology for sale to anyone ready to pay your prices?”

  “I would have you believe that I am not a traitor.”

  “Threatening to have me shot is no argument in your favor,” Grigoriyev noted. “You will surrender yourself and order the GRU to cooperate with my investigation. If you are innocent, you will be freed—”

&
nbsp; “You will ensure I am proven guilty, Anatoly. What I have actually done will not matter—” Lavrov said.

  • • •

  The Spetsnaz officer crouching on the extreme left of the his team’s firing line was the youngest man on the squad, new to the Special Forces and the least experienced. He had not intended to position himself on the flank, preferring to leave that to one of the more senior officers, but there had been little time to coordinate their movements before Lavrov had raised his hand to call them out. There was little space behind the helicopter and several men were bunched together, almost pushing him out from behind cover. It would not take much to find himself exposed here.

  He scanned the hangar. Most of the FSB officers had managed to find good cover behind equipment and other cargo stacks, but the helicopter denied them any good line of fire. The two who had moved behind Lavrov’s jeep were a problem. They were far enough over so that they would be able to flank his team’s position. That needed fixing.

  A pallet of cargo boxes was stacked a few meters to his left, a forklift waiting next to it, the tines lowered to the ground. From there, he could hold them down if things turned unpleasant. It would be a short run. He might even be able to move farther over and gain a line of fire on some of the other hostiles. He could trade his current position for better cover and expose the enemy in the process.

  He took a breath, released it, and pushed off, running for the forklift.

  • • •

  Kyra saw movement in her peripheral vision. The FSB officer to Kyra’s right jerked his head, swung his pistol out of reflex, yelled, and fired.

  The 9x19mm Parabellum round punched through the soldier’s upper thigh, just missing the pelvic bone and breaking the femur near the upper joint. Blood spurted from his leg and the man went down with a scream. His teammates heard the shot’s report, saw their colleague drop, and returned fire.

  • • •

  Kyra yelled as bullets tore into Lavrov’s jeep, shattering the windows and spewing glass in every direction. The Spetsnaz were carrying AEK-919s, automatic submachine guns for which the FSB’s pistols were a poor match. The volume of fire that erupted from behind the helicopter was deafening, streams of lead pouring out in every direction at once. Lavrov and Grigoriyev both fled for cover, the general around the side of the aircraft, the FSB director back toward a low wall of metal boxes.