by Saul Herzog
79
Medvedev reclined regally by the fire, sipping his expensive Bärenfang, a honey liquor based on a fifteenth-century recipe used by East Prussian and Lithuanian bear trappers.
He remembered the first time he tasted it, decades ago in Berlin. He’d been training East German secret police in a new class of interrogation technique that, to this day, remained classified by the German government
Even then, he’d known it was his drink.
“Girl,” he cried out. “Another.”
She came running into the library, almost spilling the golden liquid in her haste.
“Wait,” he said when she made to leave.
She paused.
“Come,” he said, tapping his meaty hand on his lap. “Sit.”
She looked at him, terrified, like a rabbit in the gaze of a wolf, then turned and fled.
Medvedev shook his head. She didn’t know who he was. None of them did. He was just one more guest of the president here.
And they didn’t fear him.
The president’s estate was an eminently comfortable place, excellently appointed, it had all the amenities to be sure, but it was so dull. Medvedev pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Svetlana’s number. If the president’s staff wouldn’t offer him diversion, he would have to bring in his own.
Svetlana answered on the first ring. She always did.
“Sir,” she said apprehensively.
She’d thought she’d be rid of him for a few days. He saw the look of relief on her face when he said he’d be away. Now he was going to relish disabusing her of the illusion.
“Sveta,” he said. Using the familiar form of her name made her skin crawl. “I’m going to need you out at the estate tonight.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I need you to come to the estate.”
“I’m not cleared, sir.”
“I’ll get you clearance, Sveta,” he said.
He felt a rush of pleasure as she digested his meaning.
“Very well, sir,” she said after the briefest of pauses.
He picked up his glass and drained it.
Outside the window, a stork coasted over the lawn so elegantly it could have been a cloud drifting, and landed next to the pond.
“Oh, and Sveta,” he said, “I’ll need you to pick up a few things on your way.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There’s a man at the concierge desk at the department store. His name is Kuragin. Tell him I sent you.”
“What am I picking up, sir?”
“Oh, you’ll see, my dear. You’ll see,” he said, running his tongue over his plump lips.
He hung up the phone and threw another log on the fire. He was content. Everything was going his way. Roth’s assassin was still on the loose, he’d gotten the better of the forces sent out to Kapotnya to kill him, but there were limits to the threat one man could pose.
Mikhail knew if he wasn’t safe on the president’s personal estate, he was safe nowhere. The compound was one of the most closely guarded sites on the planet, protected by a full infantry battalion. In the event of an attack, they could call on support from a new batch of Su-57 fighter jets that had just been transferred from the 929th Chkalov flight-test center in Akhtubinsk. They were capable of going up against any aircraft on earth, even the new American F-22 Raptors. Not only were the Russian jets armed with an infrared search and track system that the F-22 lacked, but they also had a higher top speed.
Mikhail stood up and went to the window. The estate grounds were well-tended, decorated with pools and ponds and countless statues, but in the winter, nothing could stop them from looking desolate and barren.
Some soldiers stood outside on the driveway, smoking cigarettes with one hand while the other remained in their coat pockets.
There was a humidor on the sideboard, and Medvedev opened it, helping himself to a generously proportioned Cohiba Robusto.
When he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, he jumped.
“Mr. President, sir,” he said, hastily putting down the cigar.
“Mikhail,” the president said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Not at all, sir,” Medvedev said, doing up the top buttons on his shirt.
“I’ll be brief,” the president said. “I don’t want to keep you from your cigar.”
“You’re not keeping me from anything, Mr. President.”
“I need to know how big a problem we have.”
“Problem, sir?” Medvedev said.
“I was just notified that your man, Sergey Sergeyevich, is dead.”
Medvedev had been hoping to keep that fact from the president a little longer. What he needed now was for everyone in the Kremlin to hold their nerve. He was so close to his goal and could tolerate no backpedaling.
“Are you certain I can’t tempt you to join me for a drink, sir?”
“I only have a few moments, Mikhail.”
Medvedev was severely lacking in almost all aspects of interpersonal relations, but there was one area he understood perfectly, power dynamics.
It was what made him so valuable, and so dangerous.
His time was coming. He would not be the president’s dog for much longer. He was so close to his goal he could almost taste it. He just needed a little more time.
“Sergeyevich’s death is nothing to worry about, sir.”
“Wasn’t he the one keeping the NSA Director in line?”
“We no longer have a use for Sandra Shrader, sir.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mikhail, but isn’t she the one who provided the intel leading to the apartment in Kapotnya?”
Medvedev knew he needed to nip this in the bud.
“The American assassin is a problem,” he admitted.
“Lance Spector is more than a problem, Mikhail.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“Your name’s next on his list, for God’s sake.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“I want him dead, Mikhail. And I want you out of my house.”
Mikhail bowed his head, ever so slightly. “Very good, sir.”
The president left.
Mikhail picked up the cigar he’d been about to light and put it in his mouth. He pictured the look on the president’s face when he finally realized he’d been outplayed, outmaneuvered by his own hound, and without realizing, bit through the base of the cigar.
80
Larissa sat in the back of the rental car and thought about what Tatyana had said. A secretary, young, pretty, dressed like a loyal communist schoolgirl from the seventies, complete with the short skirt and red scarf. She’d said Laurel and Roth had wanted to focus on the convoy, but something told her that woman was the key.
Larissa knew she was right. Maybe you had to grow up as a pretty girl in Russia to understand it fully, but if this secretary were anything like Tatyana and Larissa, she would be willing to risk her life to see her lecherous boss get his nuts chopped off.
She knew it.
It was more than a hunch. It was instinct.
And Larissa was determined to play her part in it. She wanted her pound of flesh. She wanted revenge. She was going to have nightmares for the rest of her life about the man she’d killed, the people she’d seen die before her eyes, and if there was one thing that would make her sleep easier, it was knowing the man behind it all was six feet underground.
Lance had rented a car, a luxury BMW sedan, and Larissa spread herself across the luxurious backseat. Outside, the snow fell on gas pumps and street lamps and asphalt. They were still in the city’s outskirts, the neighborhood where Lance had picked up the weapons, and they were waiting for a signal from Laurel.
Lance was in the front, going over schematics of the presidential compound, and Larissa opened her window a crack. She lit a cigarette.
The plan was to get into the compound undetected and take out the target with a long-distance sniper shot. Larissa was no exper
t on the subject, but she understood there were several problems with the plan. For one thing, they didn’t know for certain that the target was inside the compound. Secondly, if he was inside, there was no guarantee Lance would be able to find him unaided. The grounds covered hundreds of acres and multiple buildings. The largest was the presidential mansion, with its dozens of rooms spread over three levels.
The entire compound was one of the most heavily guarded facilities in all of Russia, protected by every branch of the Russian military, as well as special departments of the intelligence service, the federal police force, and Moscow metro police.
Lance didn’t seem worried, but she knew his getting in and out alive was not a foregone conclusion.
The call they were making to DC was at Larissa’s insistence. She couldn’t stop thinking of the secretary. She knew that if she could just have a few minutes alone with her, she could get her to help them. For all their satellites and drones, the CIA couldn’t ever account for something like a young woman who wanted her boss dead.
Tatyana understood that.
Larissa understood it.
Even Laurel was behind it.
But Lance, and especially Roth, had required some convincing.
There was a buzz on the phone.
“Is that it?” Larissa said.
“That’s it,” Lance said.
Larissa nodded. “Believe me,” she said, “this woman would put a bullet in her boss’s skull if we just gave her a gun.”
“Remind me never to piss you off,” Lance said, firing up the engine.
“All I need is two minutes with her,” Larissa said.
Lance pulled out onto the street and began making his way through the evening traffic.
“You know,” he said, leaning back to her, “this car has some pretty nice features.”
“Like what?”
“Sit on that side,” he said, nodding toward the seat behind the passenger seat.
She moved over, and he pressed some buttons on the dashboard. Her seat began reclining, and at the same time, the seat in front of her moved forward, giving her so much legroom that she could lie all the way back. The seat was fully reclinable, like in the first-class cabin of an airliner. Combined with the entertainment system in front of her and the digital consoles built into the center console, it pretty much had everything a jet would offer.
“I could get used to this,” she said.
Lance nodded. “I always liked this car.”
He drove a few miles and pulled over at a strip mall surrounded by apartment towers. There were some payphones in the parking lot, and they parked next to them. Lance took a small metal box from the glovebox that looked to Larissa like an external hard drive and got out of the car.
She raised her seat to watch him make the call.
He made no sign while he was on the phone, and when he got back into the car, she said, “Well?”
“Do you know the GUM department store on Red Square?”
“Know it?” Larissa said. “I practically live there.”
“She entered that store less than ten minutes ago.”
“We better hurry,” Larissa said.
Lance drove very fast through the Moscow traffic. As they approached Red Square, he said, “That’s a big store.”
Larissa smiled. “It’s not that big. If she’s in there, I’ll find her.”
He pulled over by the entrance and said, “I’ll meet you back here. If you don’t see me, come back on the quarter-hour. I’ll be here.”
“All right,” Larissa said.
“And don’t forget, the entire city is looking for you.”
She pulled her scarf from her purse and tied it the way he’d shown her. It made her feel like a grandmother, the way it covered her hair and came in around her face. She also had sunglasses and a coat they’d purchased with a faux-fur lined hood that provided additional coverage.
She pulled up the hood and stepped out of the car.
“Every fifteen minutes,” Lance said. “On the quarter-hour.”
81
Larissa was so familiar with the GUM State Department Store that entering it now was jarring, a sudden glimpse of the life she’d left behind forever.
During the Soviet era, there’d been a store like it in every major city. It was a place where the political elites and party members could shop, while the ordinary people lined up outside shortage-ridden state dispensaries for the most basic necessities. The one she was in now, just off Red Square and facing the Kremlin, was the most opulent of them all. No matter how bad the Soviet economy got, every luxury the west had to offer, as well as the finest caviars, vodkas, and furs, had been available.
For a price.
It was a fabulous building, and it glowed now with the light of a thousand crystal chandeliers. Its facade extended eight hundred feet along the east side of Red Square, and the most famous architects of Czarist Russia had contributed to its famous glass-roofed gallery.
Before the revolution, it had been a favorite of the Czarina and her court. By the time the Bolsheviks killed her in 1918, it had over twelve hundred stores, rivaling the finest anywhere in Europe.
Larissa knew all this, and never forgot it when she entered the store’s breathtaking foyer. To her, it was a symbol of what Russia once was, and might yet be again.
She peered down the long aisle of the store’s grand hall and tried to guess where she would go if she’d been sent there by a boss. There was an extensive lingerie department that had all of the most intricate lace creations imaginable. Larissa shopped there frequently and made her way to it.
She hurried up to the second-floor gallery and, as she approached the lingerie department, noticed from the corner of her eye, the red scarf of the Young Pioneers. The woman wearing it was young, innocent, and the look on her face was that of pure fear. She didn’t enter the lingerie department but walked up to an anonymous door off the main hall that Larissa had never noticed before. It was brass with black leather trim and had no markings on it of any kind.
The woman pushed a button, waited, and when it buzzed, pushed it open.
This was her, the secretary. There was zero doubt in Larissa’s mind.
She waited a few minutes, and when the woman returned, it was plain from her face and makeup that she’d been crying.
Larissa watched her. She made her way to the women’s washroom, and Larissa followed.
The woman entered one of the stalls, and Larissa entered the one next to her. On the other side of a thin slab of marble, she could hear sobbing.
Then she heard the woman speaking into her phone.
“I picked up the package,” she said.
There was a pause, the sound of a package being opened, then, “Toys, sir. All sorts of toys.”
Another pause, then, “No, I’d like to. For you.”
Then, “I hope they don’t hurt too badly.”
The woman hung up and then burst into tears. Larissa left the stall and locked the door of the washroom so they wouldn’t be disturbed. When the woman came out of her stall, Larissa was standing there.
“Relax,” Larissa said. “I’m your friend.”
“What is this?” the woman said.
Larissa knew this woman better than she knew herself. She knew how she felt. The powerlessness. The hopelessness. But most of all, the rage.
“I’m going to help you.”
“What are you talking about?” the woman said, glancing around the room.
“There’s no one here but us,” Larissa said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Larissa Chipovskaya. Up until a couple of days ago, I was a dancer at a gentleman’s club close to the Lubyanka.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” the woman said.
“I know what kind of man your boss is.”
The woman looked petrified. “We can’t talk about him.”
“He can’t hear us here,” Larissa said, “and what I have to tell you won
’t take long.”
The woman made to leave the room, but Larissa blocked her.
“Let me out,” she said.
“Your boss has gone too far.”
The woman’s eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal. Larissa knew she didn’t have much time.
“He’s under surveillance right now.”
“That’s a lie,” the woman said.
“He’s with the president,” Larissa said. “He travels back and forth between the Lubyanka and the president’s estate.”
“How do you know this?”
“The Americans want to take him out.”
The woman shook her head. “You’re lying to me. This is a trap. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
“It’s not a trap,” Larissa said. “It’s real. It’s happening now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re coming for him.”
“He’s above the law.”
“It’s not the law that’s coming.”
“I can’t be here,” she said, her voice growing frantic.
“An assassin,” Larissa said. “An American assassin is going to kill him.”
She shook her head. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because we need your help.”
“I can’t help you with this.”
“I know you,” Larissa said. “I know what it’s like to be in your shoes. I’ve been there, believe me.”
“You have no idea who I am.”
“I know you want a chance to do something to this man, to get even with him, to taste revenge.”
“He said he’d kill my entire family.”
“Not if we kill him first,” Larissa said.
The woman shook her head. “I can’t,” she mouthed silently.
“Fight back,” Larissa said. “Now is your only chance.”
She shook her head. She was so terrified she couldn’t even speak. Larissa stepped forward and took her package from her. Inside were the most depraved and outrageous sex toys she’d ever seen. They looked like they’d been designed more for pain than for pleasure.
“This is your chance,” Larissa said. “I know you want to get even.”