Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  Two bombs. And big time terrorists, like Al-Quaida, loved coordinated attacks.

  He must have known there were two bombs. Sergei Tokarev had given Robey his orders. And yet, somehow he’d shut it out—overwhelmed by waking on a U. S. Government airplane to find he’d gone from international arms dealer and bomb hunter to a federal prisoner, his body damaged, his mind a chaotic mess with great gaps among the rush of memory. His only seeming friend a gorgeous blonde who was a perfect stranger, a female agent set to spy on him. Seduce him. Do anything to get him to play the Americans’ game.

  Hell, he wouldn’t even play the Russians’ game most of the time . . .

  Since then, he’d been moving far and fast, while trying to cope with the Feds, Leonov’s bad guys, his supposed friends, like Uncle Arkadi and a blonde named Valentina. No wonder he hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the concept of Bomb Number Two.

  Sergei swore under his breath, a soft sibilance of Russian profanity.

  “What?” Vee asked. “I thought you were pleased that we found Mikoyan.”

  “I just thought of another problem,” Sergei muttered. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “I do want to know!” Vee snapped. “I’m really, really tired of being shut out.”

  And she really, really wasn’t going to like his news bulletin either. Might as well get it over with in one breath. “There may be more than one bomb, and they’ve had time to scare up another expert. There’s always a nuclear hotshot somewhere who’d like to supplement his income.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Vee declared flatly.

  “I wish I were.”

  Naturally, she poked and prodded him almost all the way back to Irkutsk, scolding, challenging, “Are you sure, sure, sure?” Sergei finally told her if she kept up the interrogation, he was going to open the door and drop her out.

  Smoking silence enveloped them the rest of the flight. Dusk was approaching as they went wheels down and began to taxi back to the modest terminal building, but not enough to obscure the official-looking black vehicles waiting at the edge of the runway. Even Sergei’s broad range of profanity deserted him. Just when it looked as if their hunt was making progress, he’d been betrayed.

  As they rolled to a stop directly beside the two large black cars, Sergei charged the cockpit. Gosha had just opened the door, a two-step staircase was being rolled in place. Sergei swung so hard, the pilot stumbled backwards down the stairs, landing with a thud on the tarmac. “Viblyadok!” Sergei shouted after him. “Bladskyi rot!”

  Vee’s grandmother never taught her those words, but she’d learned them in Novosibirsk. For some reason Seryozha had just called Gosha a bastard and a son of a bitch. She dashed to the front of the plane in time to see Sergei wrestled away by two men carrying AK-47s. They tossed him into the back of one of black vehicles.

  Gosha was back on his feet, looking hangdog. He couldn’t meet Vee’s eyes. A tall sandy blond stood at the bottom of the stairs, fortyish and strikingly handsome in Russian uniform. A cop to the core. Probably GRU, the successor to the KGB.

  “Miss Frost, welcome to Siberia,” he said in English. “Please join us.”

  “I speak Russian.”

  “So I’ve been told. You will, however, indulge me in showing off my English.” He held out his hand, graciously offering to assist her down the stairs.

  Startled, Vee accepted his hand automatically and found herself ushered into the back seat of a second black car, and soon joined by Kiril Mikoyan. Crumpled from vigorous outdoorsman to defeated old man, he was still clutching his basket of mushrooms. Damn! She was too soft for this game. No matter what he’d done, Vee had hoped the old man would make it to his new life in Canada.

  Even though she couldn’t see Seryozha, Vee had no difficulty picturing his state of mind. Just when he’d begun to drag more facts out of the murk of his mind, he’d been blindsided. There was no doubt the ambush was unexpected. He had put every ounce of his anguish into that blow to Gosha’s hairy jaw. Being swept up by the GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate, had thrown a major monkey wrench into their plans. Not to mention the personal hazard. Vee shivered, grateful to see that the GRU major, who had settled into the front passenger seat, was not looking in her direction.

  Where were they going? Some convenient oubliette in the Siberian forest where they’d be lost forever? Ah, no. No forest needed when Lake Baikal and its mile-deep depths were so close at hand.

  Worse yet, were they to be interrogated instead of eradicated? Drugged and tortured until the whole story came out?

  Vee hadn’t liked the way the GRU major looked at her either. Amused, appreciative, interested—take your pick. Oh, shit!

  It was fully dark by the time their two-car cavalcade arrived at its destination. All Vee could see was an unusually large dacha, its windows spilling light onto heavy forest in every direction. Not exactly the Lubyanka. Nor was the room the major indicated was hers. A holding cell it wasn’t. She was in a bedroom slightly larger than the one at Aunt Victoria’s island cottage. The decor wasn’t so far different either, a double bed with quilted spread in a country print, matching draperies at the window. Decent pine furniture, probably hand-crafted. A brush, comb, and mirror on the dresser. And some remarkably fine landscapes on the wall that looked like—Vee stepped closer, peered at an oil of Lake Baikal and a watercolor of a deer in the forest. Originals, not prints.

  Strange, very strange. Vee sat down on the side of the bed and didn’t move, while her thoughts circled each other, worried, frustrated, and confused. What was happening to Seryozha and the suddenly fragile old man? Was this the end of their quest? Did the recent hard-line attitude of the Russian government indicate that some of those in power wouldn’t mind if an American city—or two— was blown off the map? Or . . .?

  A knock on the door. Vee looked up, expectantly, but the door didn’t open. A second knock, only slightly louder. Whoever was at the door was waiting politely for her to answer. She controlled the door? Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard the click of a lock when the major closed her in.

  Vee opened the door, and a young man in uniform rolled her suitcase, the one that had been left at the hotel in Irkutsk, into the room. He gave her a shy sideways nod, and left. The carry-on bag she’d taken to Bratsk was draped over the pull-out handle of the suitcase Seryozha had insisted she buy on their shopping spree at the casino in Atlantic City. Obviously, he’d known they were about to go world-hopping. Now, grateful as she was for her possessions, Vee could only stare at them, her thoughts going round and round as she attempted to figure out what was going on.

  Another knock revealed a fresh-faced young woman who, evidently not realizing Vee spoke Russian, signaled for her to come out of the bedroom and shooed her toward a round table in what appeared to be a spacious living room. The table held a fine silver samovar, two tall glasses in intricately designed enameled-copper holders, containers of sugar, cream, delicately sliced lemon, and a plate of pastries. The girl smiled, obviously delighted to be able to offer such a fine display of hospitality, and disappeared down a corridor on the right.

  Vee gaped, her eyes gradually rising from the tea table to the excellent, if not new, furnishings, the fire dancing in the stone fireplace, and finally to the array of windows on the opposite side of the dacha from the entryway. Leaving the tea to steep, Vee stepped up to one of the broad windows. Oh. My. God. She knew where she was. This had to be the Eisenhower dacha. It had been pointed out to her on her first trip to Baikal, back when she was a student. In the early summer of 1960, when Eisenhower was President, he’d planned a visit to the USSR in an effort to defuse some of the tensions of the Cold War. The Russians had gone so far as to build this dacha high on a hillside above Lake Baikal so the President might enjoy spectacular views of Russia’s greatest natural wonder. And then the Russians had shot down one of our U-2 spy planes that just happened to be 1200 miles into Russian airspace. The President’s visit was one of the cas
ualties of the resulting international incident. The elegant log cabin had never been used. At least not by President Dwight Eisenhower.

  “You are enjoying your dungeon, Ms Frost?” With only a small gasp of surprise, Vee swung around to find the GRU major standing beside the tea table. “Shall we?” he said, waving a hand toward one of two small chairs. “You may pour.”

  Vee wondered when the Mad Hatter was going to appear. Cool, play it cool. That was her name, after all. Stifling the many questions that demanded answers, she carefully filled the major’s teacup, added sugar, no cream, as requested, then prepared her own, adding nothing but a thin slice of lemon. She passed the plate of pastries, was amused as the major’s eyes lit with appreciation.

  Eyes. Vee took another quick look. The light in the room was far from bright, but she could almost swear his eyes were green. And the sculpted Slavic cheekbones also looked familiar.

  Ridiculous. Tension had her mind skittering into the realm of the absurd. Enough! Time to stop playing the major’s game. “What have you done with them?” Vee demanded.

  “I would tell you both men are in adjoining dungeons in the cellar, but I have already used that line.” Amusement clearly showed in eyes that were definitely green. “They are comfortable and being fed, as you are. We will dine together later, but first I wish to talk with you separately. To hear your version of Sergei’s wild tale.” The major offered an all-too-knowledgeable smile over the top of his tea glass.

  Sergei. Not Tokarev. They knew each other? Another oddity—the inflection of the major’s excellent American English was almost exactly like Seryozha’s. The timbre of his voice. The touch of dry humor . . .

  Vee dismissed her musings—not important at the moment. The major had asked her a crucial question—something that might determine their fate. So how did she answer? Particularly when she had no idea what Seryozha had told him.

  Vee nibbled a small pastry, chewing slowly. She’d swear the major’s lips twitched. Either the days of the KGB were truly long gone, or there was another factor at work here.

  Vee swallowed, dusted crumbs off her finger onto her large white cloth napkin. “You can’t possibly expect me to babble on about our recent activities when I have absolutely no idea what Sergei told you.”

  The major had a charming smile that Vee had also seen before, if from more uneven features. “But of course. I would expect no less from a Frost. Very well . . .” Firelight danced off the major’s straight sandy blond hair as he took a long swallow of tea before setting the holder back on the table. He steepled his fingers, thought for a few moments, obviously choosing his words with care. “We know Sergei chases old bombs. This is not a bad thing, so we allow him to do it. But it has become an obsession. I am only three years older than he, yet I have a good job, a wife and four children . . .”

  From the way he looked at her from time to time, Vee could only hope he kept his family firmly fixed in his mind.

  “It is a good life. But Seryozha . . . he is our Quixote, perhaps even our black sheep. He is independent, wants help only when he asks for it. Very prickly, I believe you say. We were relieved when he went off to America and went undercover with the Organizatsiya. Much easier to deal with such a burr under the skin when he is five thousand miles away, no?”

  Vee scowled. Darkly.

  “We thank you for your care of him”—the major offered a wry smile—“even though your motives may have been far from altruistic.”

  “I assure you, his doctors saw him as a human being,” Vee countered swiftly. “As did I.”

  The major nodded, seemingly satisfied. But the silence grew heavy before he finally began to talk. “Sergei finds bombs. We make them go away. Final take-down, disassembly, that is all he wants from us. And now, I think, he is using your people in the same way. Except”—the major lowered his steepled fingers and gave her what could only be described as the once-over—he has let someone inside. Taken a companion for the first time. We are intrigued.”

  “He was very badly hurt, perhaps more than you realize. His amnesia was genuine. The hospital used every test in existence, including drugs and hypnosis. Until about a week ago, he remembered nothing. He needed an . . . advocate, if you will. Someone to stand by his side.” Vee gave a deprecating shrug. “I was the chosen one.”

  “Lucky Sergei,” the major murmured from behind a gaze as innocent as a newborn’s.

  Damn. Vee’s head whirled, making major readjustments. Seryozha was Russian. Not Russian-American, but a flat-out, natural-born son of Mother Russia. The GRU knew him well, obviously much better than she did. Which meant there was little risk in disclosing most of what she knew.

  Ignoring the major’s most recent insinuating remark, Vee told her tale, beginning with Sergei being found half-alive on the bank of the East River and being identified through fingerprints on file with Interpol. “Homeland Security heard rumors that led them to believe Sergei Tokarev had vital information about a terrorist plot, but at the time I met him there was nothing in his head at all. For the first three or four days in the hospital, no one even knew he spoke English, including himself. He told me the English alphabet was a complete mystery to him.” Which she should have remembered when trying to figure out his nationality.

  The major frowned. “Your description of that time is more thorough than his.”

  “Well, of course. He nearly died. And then a few days later, on the flight to a mountain retreat not so different from this dacha, he suffered a complete switch, although he wouldn’t admit it at the time. Who could blame him for trusting no one? After the switch,” Vee continued, “he recalled being Sergei Tokarev, but he’d forgotten the hospital, our escape from New York, our time at . . . Never mind, it’s enough to know that his mind has been very erratic, with several crucial blank spots remaining.”

  “He told me you saved his life in New York, something about a smoke bomb?”

  Vee nodded. “Events have been coming back gradually, or he may have heard the guards talking. I really don’t know.”

  The major drummed his fingers on the table; the tea glasses clinked in their holders. “And when did he tell you about the bombs?”

  Chapter 19

  Vee remembered the moment of her father’s briefing on the island with vivid clarity. Until then she had assumed Homeland Security was trying to rein in the Organisatsiya, particularly its arms-smuggling branch. But the possibility of an attack worse than 9/11? Her stomach had roiled. Was she up to the challenge? Could she really do this?

  But looking back . . . there had been something more. With so much going on, she’d only caught a vague sense of it at the time, but now she began to realize how much worse her father’s revelations must have been for Seryozha. He was physically weak and suffering from the shock of loss of self. Adrift in limbo with the inevitable devastating loss of confidence that had to go with no recollection of who or what he was.

  Now, suddenly, a Deputy Chief of Homeland Security was telling him thousands of people could die unless he shaped up. Fast. Here, man. Take this blank slate and go out and save the world. Seryozha had somehow survived the blow and now, only a week later, they were half-way round the world on an honest-to-God bomb hunt.

  “Jack Frost briefed us in person,” Vee told the major. “We were in an improvised safe house after our escape from New York. Seryozha was just out of the hospital, barely able to walk, but he sat there and took it as if somehow he’d known all along it was his job to save the world.”

  “Ah, da.” The major nodded. “That is Seryozha. A dog who holds a bone firm in his teeth even when he has forgotten it is there. A man who will continue to clench his jaws around the bone long after it has turned to dust.”

  Vee clutched her tea glass, the filigreed design biting into her fingers. “Major . . . why do you trivialize what Sergei does? His mission is vital . . .noble—”

  The major arrested his flying fist an inch short of rattling the teacups. “Because—govnó!—until now, the
re was no threat! Just ancient bombs of no tactical importance. Yet he insisted on chasing these phantoms of the Cold War. It has obsessed him, kept him from any kind of normal life. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. Too bad poor Seryozha couldn’t come. He is still off chasing his bombs.”

  “Then you are related?”

  The major unfolded from his chair, holding himself to stiff attention. “I am Major Mikhail Ivanovich Zhukov. You may call me Misha. Seryozha is my little brother.”

  Vee laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Please sit, major. Misha. I am not laughing at you, only at the thought of Seryozha as a younger brother. An only child, an eldest child”—Vee shook her head—“but a younger son, I just can’t see it. He is too independent.”

  The major responded with a rather charming, if chagrined, smile of his own. “You are correct that we have grown too accustomed to thinking of him as our Don Quixote, giving little serious consideration to his crusade. But now that his phantoms have developed teeth, we have been forced to make the intercept. Independence only goes so far. We needed to know what was going on.”

  Vee could relate to that. “So what happens next? I’m ninety-nine percent convinced you don’t want to see any bombs go off. Sergei seems to be the only person who can stop this madness, yet here we are, having tea before a roaring fire while a major city or two are on the brink of annihilation.”

  Major Zhukov crossed the room to what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden cabinet. “Scotch?” he asked, as he opened the door to reveal a fine variety of international labels. “Or has Seryozha not converted you to his favorite drink?”

  “I’ve been drinking scotch since before I came of age, but I must admit I’d never discovered the delights of single malt ’til I met your brother.”

  A soft smile flitted across the major’s face . “Water, soda, or straight?”