The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Valentina laughed and kissed Karmanov’s cheek, “They’re watching us,” she whispered.

  Karmanov chuckled, making a show of enjoying the kiss. “Of course they are.”

  As they approached the vehicles, the front door of the house opened and two men walked out, followed by another pair of agents holding Prime Minister Maxim Gundarovsky between them. Gundarovsky had once been the Prosecutor-General of Russia, where he’d become famous as an ardent adversary of corruption and organized crime. From there, he’d moved quickly to high office on a tidal wave of public support. During the dangerous years as Russia’s leading criminal prosecutor, he’d developed a close friendship with Karmanov, his lead investigator, and had initiated the investigation into the systematic theft of Russia’s wealth by the Soviet Era Communist Party. Now in his mid fifties, balding and slightly overweight, he held his head high with a dignity belying his situation.

  “Eight of them!” Kindansky whispered ominously.

  “There’s still time,” Karmanov said.

  The Prime Minister walked down the stairs to the sidewalk, glancing at the three people approaching. Karmanov caught Gundarovsky’s eye for only a instant, long enough for understanding to pass between them.

  When Gundarovsky reached the pavement he stopped, and yelled, “I demand to speak with the President!”

  The guards’ attention was immediately drawn to him. Gundarovsky twisted away from his captor’s grip, making a show of refusing to be put into the van. He appeared to stumble, then threw himself to the ground, screaming he wouldn’t go.

  Karmanov, Valentina and Kindansky opened their coats, produced sub-machine guns, and raked the guards with automatic fire. There was no thought of offering them the chance of surrender. None of the undercover operatives had time to even draw their weapons. In seconds, all eight lay dead on the ground. At the end of the street, tires squealed as Moroshkin came speeding around the corner toward them.

  Karmanov dragged Gundarovsky to his feet. “Are you hurt, sir?” he asked as he pulled the Prime Minister over bloody corpses to the road.

  “I’m fine Alexander. How did you know?”

  “I couldn’t get through to the Kremlin or your house,” Karmanov said. “The only way they could succeed is if you and the President were under arrest.”

  Gundarovsky nodded. “They already have the President.”

  The car skidded to a stop and they jumped in. Before the doors were closed, the wheels spun, sending the car racing down the street. Soon, it had disappeared into the urban sprawl of suburban Moscow.

  * * * *

  Craig became aware of voices and music floating to him through a dark mist. Gradually, the sounds became sharper and he was able to open his eyes. The room was dark, except for light spilling in from the hallway. He tried moving his hands and feet, but discovered they were still tied to the chair.

  The row of syringes and bottles still sat on a small table beside the chair. Each syringe was sealed in its own sterile wrapper, with a yellow cap shielding its point. When his strength had returned enough to move, he rocked the chair towards the table and picked up one of the sterile wrappers with his lips. Holding the packet in his teeth, he doubled over so his finger tips could tear open the seal. The syringe balanced on the torn wrapper a moment and fell to the floor. Craig swore silently, then edged the chair away until he judged the distance was right. He threw himself sideways, toppling the chair onto its side. The carpet muted the sound of the fall, but even so he waited, listening for any sign that the guards had been roused. When no one came to investigate, he wriggled the chair towards the syringe and his fingers caught the tip of the plunger.

  Craig breathed a sigh of relief, flicked the yellow plastic cap off the point with his thumb and began picking at the rope tying his hand to the chair.

  * * * *

  The sentry at the barracks gate leaned toward the window of Karmanov’s car. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, we’re here to see General Zharkev?” Valentina said, flashing her SK investigator’s ID at him.

  The sentry, a fresh faced private barely twenty years old, looked at their identity cards uncertainly. “Is the General expecting you?”

  “No,” Karmanov said sharply, “But he’ll see us. It’s a very confidential matter which we can only discuss with the General.”

  The sentry looked uncomfortable. The dealings of Generals were far beyond his understanding, but even a simple private knew Sledkom’s growing reputation for pursuing corruption, even among those formerly immune to prosecution due to their high office or personal wealth. Zharkev was widely regarded as a committed and honest officer, but now the private wondered whether the General was facing disgrace. The mere thought of being embroiled in such a scandal unnerved the young infantryman.

  “I can’t admit you without permission,” he said helplessly.

  “Ring the General and get permission,” Karmanov said in a tone that indicated he was not about to be deflected.

  “Yes, sir.” The young soldier stepped back into his sentry box and picked up the telephone.

  “I hope this works,” Karmanov whispered.

  The sentry returned to the car. “The General’s adjutant will see you. Building 34B.” He handed Karmanov an entry pass.

  They drove through into the Parachute Division’s base, past rows of white barracks, to Divisional Headquarters. Inside, the adjutant greeted them with guarded irritation.

  “What is your business with the General?”

  “It’s regarding a confidential investigation,” Karmanov replied.

  “Investigations concerning military personal, are conducted by the Advocate General. You have no–”

  “Not all investigations,” Valentina corrected. “This is not a matter the General would want us to discuss with anyone but him.”

  Karmanov showed his identity card. “I am the Chief Criminal Investigator of the Central Investigation Department.” He leaned forward with a touch of menace. “I suggest you call the General immediately, before we have to resort to more serious measures.”

  The adjutant straightened, uncertain what he was dealing with. “Wait here,” he snapped, then walked stiffly to the General’s door, and entered. A minute later, he appeared. “General Zharkev will see you.”

  “Thank you,” Valentina said, while Karmanov barely acknowledged the adjutant, playing his role to the end.

  When they entered, General Zharkev looked up from his desk. “Yes?” he asked without preamble, clearly not in the least threatened or intimidated.

  Karmanov closed the door, ensuring no prying ears could hear what they were about to discuss. “My apologies for the ruse, General. We’re here at the request of the Prime Minister.”

  General Zharkev put his pen down and sat back in his chair. “Really? Gundarovsky sent you? Why?”

  “The Prime Minister knows you’re a honest man, and that you’re a personal friend of the President,” Valentina said. “He wishes you to know the President has not suffered a heart attack, as the media are reporting, but has been illegally arrested. You see, General, there is a coup d’état underway.”

  Zharkev scowled. “Nonsense! I would have heard if such a thing were happening.”

  “Sir,” Karmanov said, “The Prime Minister narrowly escaped arrest this morning. We killed eight internal security officers to free him.”

  Zharkev’s scowl vanished. “I see. Where is the Prime Minister now?”

  “He’s . . . in hiding,” Valentina said, not prepared to reveal Gundarovsky’s location until she knew Zharkev was on their side.

  Zharkev noted her caution. “Who’s behind this putsch?”

  “Hard liners in the Kremlin,” Karmanov said. “Defense Minister Tarkovskoi is certainly one of them.”

  “And several members of the Army’s General Staff,” Valentina added.

  Zharkev’s eyes narrowed. His Paratroop Division had received an order from Tarkovskoi’s office to prepare to deploy troops w
ithout artillery at three hours notice, although where or why they were to be deployed had not been explained.

  A steely look appeared on the General’s face as his anger began to rise. “Go on.”

  “The President is under house arrest in his private residence east of Moscow,” Valentina explained. “The Border Guards protecting the Presidential compound are under Tarkovskoi’s personal command. They have cut the President’s communications.”

  The curious letter General Zharkev had received from the Defense Minister several weeks ago, instructing him to take leave in August, now made sense. Tarkovskoi knew Zharkev was a democrat and would oppose any coup attempt, which explained why he’d heard nothing of the impending putsch. The fact that the paratroop commander had delayed his leave two days due to work commitments was not known to Tarkovskoi. In another twenty four hours, Zharkev would have been vacationing on the Black Sea, out of touch with his command.

  “Who else, other than Tarkovskoi, is involved?” The General asked.

  “Hard liners in the Duma, mostly communists and militarists,” Karmanov replied. “We’re not sure exactly who yet.”

  “I’m sorry to say this, General,” Valentina said, “But the army is behind the putsch. Apparently Defense Minister Tarkovskoi made a number of senior appointments in the last six months, elevating officers personally loyal to him, officers who will support the coup.”

  “I see.” The General was well aware that a number of Siberian born officers of lesser ability had risen to senior positions they scarcely seemed qualified for, due to the support of Siberian born Tarkovskoi. If it was a coup, it showed a level of planning going back months or even years.

  “We don’t know where the air force or the navy stand at this stage,” Karmanov continued. “The Foreign Minister is in Berlin for EU talks. If he were a part of it, he wouldn’t be out of the country.”

  “Where is the Prime Minister now?”

  “He’s safe,” Karmanov said guardedly, “but he needs protection, more than we can offer. That’s why we’re here. Will you protect him?”

  The General pondered the situation a moment, then pressed the intercom. “Lieutenant Contovsky. Call my wife. Tell her I’m cancelling our vacation and won’t be home for dinner. Also summon the Brigade Commanders – I want them in my office in fifteen minutes –and get me Air Marshal Vochenko in Leningrad on a secure line – and General Usilov.”

  “Yes sir,” the adjutant replied crisply.

  “Vochenko? Usilov?” Valentina asked uncertainly.

  General Zharkev switched off the intercom. “I trust them. So, what exactly does the Prime Minister want me to do?”

  * * * *

  November 5, 2280

  “Oh shit!” Station Commander Zikky declared surprised as his console suddenly beeped at him. He sat up so fast he spilled recycled caffeine supplement on his shirt and sent his yeast extracted donut rolling across the white metal floor plates.

  Zikky had been lounging back in his chair in Lagrange-2 Station’s control room, daydreaming. He’d been searching for a clue as to Craig Balard’s fate for four years, running endless brute force programs to crack security on the six still functioning data exchanges on Earth, other than Montreal. Once he’d broken into the data centers, he’d uploaded every data-cell into the station’s massive memory core and set the station’s super computers to translating the ocean of data into English.

  Most of the fifty-four personnel on the enormous space station now worked short shifts, just enough to keep L-2S running in perfect condition. The rest of the time, they spent exercising, conducting scientific research and trying not to go insane. Pregnancy was strictly forbidden by universal agreement, both because the station’s life support system could not sustain a growing population, and because there was no point bringing children into a civilization facing extinction.

  L-2S could sustain them for half a century without resupply, longer if they were careful to keep the recyclers and protein synthesizers working efficiently, but with nowhere to go and no hope of relief, boredom was chronic and despair was endemic. Some had wanted to undock the Solar Explorer III, and make the flight to Pluto, but the station’s executive council had vetoed it. The SEIII’s life support and hydroponics systems gave the big station a safety margin they couldn’t risk losing, and the SEIII’s tachyon array provided back-up communications with the past – even though almost no one thought the plan had any chance of success.

  The station was a giant inner tube, two kilometers across and spinning fast enough to maintain ninety percent Earth-normal gravity. The cylindrical SEIII was docked in the center of the wheel’s four spokes, like an axle to the wheel. Its fusion reactor had been linked to the station’s electrical system, supplementing L-2S’s power supply, while most of its other systems had been similarly integrated, making the ship virtually one with the station.

  L-2S was Earth’s outer planets space port, located in the Sun-Earth Lagrange-2 point, a place where the gravitational fields of the Sun and Earth were balanced, providing a stable deep space orbit perfectly synchronized to the Earth’s motion through space. It was the point from which all outer planet missions were launched, and the base from where it had been planned to turn a handful of tiny research outposts on Mars and several planet-sized moons into self sustaining city-sized colonies. More than a dozen ships larger than the SEIII had been in various stages of construction in Earth orbit when the catastrophe had occurred. The war had raged across the planet, from the deepest oceans to the highest orbit, laying waste in a few hours to almost all mankind had created in ten thousand years. The station had avoided destruction because no planetary launched weapons could reach her, and as she was unarmed and played no part in global strategic systems, she had no military value.

  The Solar Explorer I, recently returned from Uranus, had been in orbit when the war began. Her orbit was now decaying. In less than two years, she would burn up in Earth’s toxic atmosphere. By contrast, the SEII had been maneuvering for insertion into Neptune’s orbit when she’d received the news of Earth’s destruction from L-2S control. Rather than return to the station, the crew had simply nosed the ship into Neptune’s freezing atmosphere. Whether the decision had been made by the entire crew, or was the act of a deranged crew member, no one knew.

  Many had given up on Mariena’s plan to use the station’s tachyon array to change the course of history. The array could be aimed at precisely calculated points along Earth’s orbit, points that were based on Earth’s position in the 21st century, not its current position.

  Commander Zikky now stared at a Russian police report containing a set of unidentified fingerprints, and a picture of an unnamed victim whose face had been crushed beyond recognition. The station’s computer had matched the fingerprints to a set taken from Craig Balard’s office and home by the New York Police Department when investigating the murders of Goldstein, McCormack and Powell. The Russian investigation had been unable to identify Craig’s fingerprints, because the successful military coup in Russia had resulted in a permanent severing of links between American and Russian law enforcement agencies.

  Unable to believe his luck, Zikky activated the intercom. “I’ve found him!”

  Mariena replied immediately. “Where was he?”

  Zikky read the English language translation of the Russian police report with growing confusion. “Moscow! Apparently his skull was crushed!”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Craig’s head had cleared by the time he picked away the last strands of rope tying his right hand to the chair. When his hand was free, he dropped the syringe and untied his other hand, then began pulling on the ropes securing his feet. Suddenly, someone stepped in front of him. He jerked back in the chair, surprised to see Mariena standing almost on top of him, staring over his shoulder at the wall immediately behind him.

  “Craig Balard, move away from the wall.”

  The old stone
wall behind him was windowless and several hundred years old. “Why?” he asked, then shook his head, remembering she couldn’t hear him. He returned to pulling on the ropes around his feet.

  “You have less than three minutes before your next time of death.”

  Craig gave her a incredulous look. “Now you tell me?”

  “If you stay near the stone wall,” she continued, oblivious to his reply, “You will be buried alive.”

  He glanced at the wall uncertainly, unable to believe such a solid structure was in danger of collapse. “I guess you got that one wrong,” he muttered, but started tearing frantically at the ropes in case she was right.

  “We’re not detecting a timeline reset!” Mariena said anxiously, unaware Craig lay at her feet, clawing at ropes tying his ankles to the heavy high backed wooden chair. “You will be crushed to death if you do not move now!”

  Crushed by what? Craig wondered as the ropes began to part.

  * * * *

  The BTR armored personnel carrier turned on the spot in the middle of the street until it faced the house. Its markings indicated it was a unit of the Kantemirovskaya Tank Brigade, a company which quartered in the same complex as the Parachute Division. The elite unit’s commander, General Sergei Usilov, was a close personal friend of General Zharkev’s and, like Zharkev, had been directed to take leave in early August. As a result of a brief conversation with Zharkev, Usilov had sent instructions to his subordinates and was now aboard a Ka-27 Helix helicopter flying back to his headquarters.

  The BTR belched black smoke as it pushed forward to the garden fence, then stopped. Inside, ten paratroopers in full combat kit under the command of Major Vodin readied themselves. Valentina and Karmanov rode up front, squeezed into a greasy space between the nineteen year old BTR gunner and his eighteen year old driver.