FBI background investigators had duly noted that Treloar's mother had been born in Russia when Treloar had applied for the post of chief medical officer. But no red flags went up. Competing for medical talent against the private sector, NASA was only too happy to land an expert like Adam Treloar, who came to the agency after fifteen years with Bauer-Zermatt A.G. No one asked why Treloar had given up his seniority at such a prestigious firm or why he had accepted a 20 percent pay cut. Instead, the space agency had handed over Treloar's impeccable credentials and glowing references and told the Bureau to fast-track the background check.
With the end of the Cold War, travel to Russia had become easier than ever. Thousands of Americans went to visit relatives whom, in many cases, they had seen only in photographs. Adam Treloar went back, too, to visit his mother after her divorce and return to her native Moscow. For the next three years, he flew in every spring to spend a week with her.
Two years ago, Treloar had informed his superiors at NASA that his mother had terminal cancer. They commiserated and told him he could have as much personal leave as he needed. The dutiful son increased his visits to three a year. Then, last fall, when Helena Bunin at last succumbed, he went back for an entire month, ostensibly to settle her affairs.
Treloar was certain that the FBI was keeping track of his visits to Moscow. But he also knew that, like any bureaucracy, it was content as long as it recognized a pattern, and that pattern did not change. Over the years, Treloar had created just such a pattern, altering it only when he had a foolproof reason to do so. Since this was the six-month anniversary of his mother's death, it would have seemed out of place if he hadn't gone to visit her grave.
During the taxi ride back to his hotel, Treloar reviewed what he had done. The cabdriver from the airport, the porter at the hotel, the old woman at the cemetery, the other cabdrivers ― all would remember him because of the generous tips. If anyone came checking, the pattern of his visit was clear. Now it would seem natural to rest for a few days in Moscow before heading back. Except that the NASA physician had more on his agenda than sightseeing.
Treloar retired to his room and slept for several hours. By the time he awoke, darkness had descended over the city. He showered, shaved, put on a fresh suit, and, bundled up in a warm overcoat, went out into the night.
The thoughts came unbidden as he walked. As much as they rankled him, he could never make them go away. So he surrendered, allowing them to wash over him, breathing shallowly until they were spent.
Adam Treloar believed himself to be marked as Cain had been marked. He was cursed by terrible desires that he could neither control nor escape from. They were the reason why he had bargained away his career at Bauer-Zermatt.
In another lifetime, Treloar had been the star of Bauer-Zermatt's virology division, preening in the respect of his peers and the adulation of his subordinates ― one subordinate in particular, a sloe-eyed fawn so beautiful that Treloar had found the temptation irresistible. But the fawn had turned out to be a goat, tethered to one of Bauer-Zermatt's competitors. The goat was meant to snare the unwary suitor, compromise him, and force him to bend to the competitor's will.
Treloar had never seen the trap; he'd only had eyes for the fawn. But he saw plenty, later, when men arrived at his apartment and played sex tapes in which he had a starring role. They offered a cold choice: exposure or cooperation. Because of the proprietary nature of Bauer-Zermatt's research, every employee had to sign a strictly worded contract whose provisions included a morals clause. Treloar's tormenters made a point of reminding him about that as they replayed the video. They drove him to face the fact that his options were few: hand over information about the company's research, or face exposure. Of course, exposure would not be the end of it. Public branding as a deviant would follow. Then, after all the publicity, the civil ― and probably criminal ― charges, it would be futile for him to try to find another job anywhere in the medical research community.
Treloar was given forty-eight hours to consider his choices. He wasted the first twenty-four doing just that. Then, as he looked into a future that held nothing but ruins, he realized that his blackmailers had overreached: they had placed him in a position where he had nothing to lose by fighting back.
By virtue of his seniority at Bauer-Zermatt, Treloar was able to secure a meeting with Dr. Karl Bauer himself. In the elegant surroundings of Bauer's Zurich office, he laid out his trespasses and the way in which he was being blackmailed. He offered to make amends any way he could.
To Treloar's surprise, Bauer seemed nonplussed at the turn of events that had befallen his wayward employee. He listened without comment, then instructed Treloar to come back the next morning.
To this day, Treloar had no idea what had transpired behind the scenes. The following morning, when he appeared before Bauer, he was told that he would never hear from the blackmailers again. Evidence of his peccadilloes was no longer in the public domain. There would be no repercussions ― ever.
But there would be recompense. Bauer informed Treloar that in return for saving his future in the medical research community, Treloar would soon leave the company. An employment offer would arrive from NASA; he would accept it. His colleagues would be told that he was seizing the chance to do the kind of research he could never be involved in if he stayed at Bauer-Zermatt. Once he arrived at NASA, he would place himself at the disposal of Dr. Dylan Reed. Reed would be his guide and mentor, and Treloar would obey him without question.
Treloar recalled the cold, precise way in which Bauer had handed down his edict. He remembered the flash of anger, then the amusement in Bauer's eyes when Treloar had timorously asked what kind of research he would be doing at NASA.
“Your work will be of secondary concern,” Bauer had told him. “It is your connection to your mother, to Russia, that interests me. You will be seeing her on a regular basis, I think.”
Treloar shouldered his way against the wind as he turned away from the bright lights of Gorky Square and into the dark streets that led into the Sadovaya District. The bars became seedier, the homeless and the drunks more aggressive. But this was not Treloar's first visit to Sadovaya, and he was not afraid.
Half a block away, he saw the familiar flashing neon sign: KROKODIL. A moment later, he rapped on the heavy door and waited for the Judas hole to open. A pair of black, suspicious eyes examined him, then the bolt was released and the door opened. On his way in, Treloar gave the giant Mongolian bouncer a twenty-dollar bill for the cover charge.
Shrugging off his coat, Treloar felt the last of his thoughts dissolve beneath the hot lights and the screaming music. Faces turned his way, eyes impressed by his Western suit. Gyrating bodies bumped him, more by design than by accident. The manager, a thin, ferretlike creature, hurried over to greet his foreign customer. Within seconds, Treloar had a glass of vodka in his hand and was being escorted along the edge of the dance floor to a private area of velvet-covered couches and soft ottomans.
He sighed as he relaxed among the cushions. The warmth of the liquor made his fingertips tingle.
“Shall I fetch you a sample?” the ferret whispered.
Treloar nodded happily. To pass the time, he closed his eyes and let the music roar through him. He stirred when something soft grazed his cheek.
Standing in front of him were two blond-haired boys, their eyes a perfect blue, their complexions flawless. They could not have been more than ten years old.
“Twins?”
The ferret nodded. “And better, virgins.”
Treloar groaned.
“But they are very expensive,” the ferret warned him.
“Never mind that,” Treloar said hoarsely. “Bring us some zakuski. And soft drinks for my angels.”
He patted the cushions on either side of him. “Come to me, my angels. Give me a taste of heaven…”
* * *
Six kilometers from the Krokodil are the three high-rises known collectively as Dzerzhinsky Square. Until the early 1990s
, it had been the headquarters of the communist KGB; after democratization, the complex was taken over by the newly formed Russian Federal Security Service.
Major-general Oleg Kirov, hands behind his back, stood in front of the windows of his fifteenth-floor office, looking out at the Moscow skyline.
“The Americans are coming,” he murmured.
“What did you say, dusha?”
Kirov heard the tap of heels on hardwood, felt slender fingers slide across his chest, inhaled the warm, sweet perfume borne on the words. He turned and took the beautiful brunette into his arms, kissing her hungrily. His passion was returned as he felt her tongue teasing his, her hands slipping to his belt, then lower.
Kirov pulled back, gazing into the provocative dark eyes that tantalized him.
“I wish I could,” he said softly.
Lieutenant Lara Telegin, Kirov's aide-de-camp, stood with arms akimbo, surveying her lover. Even in the drab military uniform she looked like a runway model.
“You promised me dinner tonight,” she pouted.
Kirov couldn't help but smile. Lara Telegin had graduated at the top of her class at the Frunze military academy. She was an expert marksman; the same hands that caressed him could take his life in a matter of seconds. Yet she could be as shameless and provocative as she was professional.
Kirov sighed. Two women in one body. Sometimes he wasn't sure which was the real one. But he would enjoy them both for as long as he could. At thirty, Lara was just beginning her career. Inevitably she would move on to other posts, and finally a command of her own. Kirov, twenty years her senior, would go from being her lover to her godfather ― or, as the Americans liked to say, a “rabbi” who would look after the interests of his favorite.
“You didn't tell me about the American,” Lara said, all business now. “Which one is it? We get so many these days.”
“I didn't tell you because you were gone all day and I had no one to help me with this infernal paperwork,” Kirov grumbled. He handed her a computer printout.
“Dr. Jon Smith,” she read. “How very common.” She frowned. “USAMRIID?”
“Our Dr. Smith is anything but common,” Kirov said dryly. “I met with him when he was stationed at Fort Detrick.”
“ `Was'? I thought he still is.”
“According to Randi Russell, he still has an association with USAMRIID but is on indefinite leave. She called to ask if I would see him.”
“Randi Russell…” Lara let the name hang.
Kirov smiled. “No need to get catty.”
“I only become catty when there's good reason,” Lara replied tartly. “So she's paving the way for Smith… who, it says here, was engaged to her sister.”
Kirov nodded. “She died in the Hades horror.”
“And would Russell ― whom we both suspect operates a CIA front ― vouch for him? Are the two of them running some kind of operation? What's going on, dusha?”
“I think that the Americans have a problem,” Kirov said heavily. “Either we're part of it or they need our help. In any event, we will find out soon enough. You and I will be seeing Smith tonight.”
* * *
In the waning afternoon Smith stepped out of the apartment block on Ulitsa Markovo. He turned his collar against the wind and stared up at the grim concrete face of the building. Somewhere within the anonymous windows on the twentieth floor Katrina Danko would be attending to the heartbreaking task of telling her six-year-old daughter, Olga, that she would never see her father again.
To Smith, the task of calling on the relatives of the dead was a task that pained him like no other. Like all wives and mothers, Katrina had known why he was here from the minute she opened the door and laid eyes on him. But she had iron in her spine. She had refused to surrender to tears, asking Smith how Yuri Danko had died and whether he had suffered. Smith told her as much of the truth as he could, then said that arrangements had already been made to fly Danko's remains to Moscow as soon as the Venetian authorities released them.
“He talked a great deal about you, Mr. Smith,” Katrina had told him. “He said that you were a good man. I see that is true.”
“I wish I could tell you more,” Smith said sincerely.
“What good would that do?” Katrina asked. “I knew the kind of work Yuri was involved in ― the secrecy, the silences. But he did it because he loved his country. He was proud of his service. All I ask is that his death not be in vain.”
“I can promise you it won't be.”
Smith walked back to his hotel and spent the next hour lost in thought. Seeing Danko's family added a personal sense of urgency to his mission. Of course he would make sure that Katrina and her daughter were well provided for. But that wasn't enough. Now more than ever he needed to know who had killed Danko, and why. He wanted to be able to look his widow in the eye and say, no, the man you loved did not die in vain.
As night descended, Smith made his way to the lobby bar. Randi, wearing a navy blue power suit, was already waiting for him.
“You look pale, Jon,” she said quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I'll be fine. Thanks for meeting me.”
They ordered pepper-flavored vodka and a plate of zakuski ― pickled mushrooms, herring, and other snacks. After the waitress withdrew, Randi raised her glass.
“To absent friends.”
Smith echoed her toast.
“I spoke with Kirov,” Randi said, and gave him the details on the upcoming meeting. She glanced at her watch. “You'll have to get going. Is there anything else I can do?”
Smith counted out some rubles and left them on the table. “Let's see how things go with Kirov tonight.”
Randi came close and slipped a business card in his hand. “My address and phone number ― just in case. You have secure communications, right?”
Smith patted his pocket. “The latest in digitally encrypted cell phones.” He gave her the number.
“Jon, if you find out anything I should know…” She let the rest of her thought hang.
Smith squeezed her hand. “I understand.”
* * *
Jon Smith had been to Moscow a number of times, but he had never had occasion to visit Dzerzhinsky Square. Now, standing in the cavernous lobby of the Zamat 3 building, all the stories he'd heard from Cold War warriors came back to him. There was a soulless indifference about the place that no amount of fresh paint could hide. The echoes off the varnished floorboards sounded like the footsteps of the condemned ― men and women who, since the birth of communism, had been dragged through there on their way to the interrogation chambers in the cellars. Smith wondered how those who worked there now dealt with the ghosts. Were they aware of them? Or was the past hurriedly dismissed for fear that, like a golem, it might come back to life?
Smith followed his junior-officer escort into the elevator. As the car rose, he mentally reviewed the details Randi had provided on Major-General Oleg Kirov's career, and that of his deputy, Lara Telegin.
Kirov seemed to be the kind of soldier who straddled the past and the future. Raised under the communist regime, he had distinguished himself in combat during Afghanistan, Russia's Vietnam. Afterward, he had thrown his lot in with the reformers. When a fragile democracy took hold, Kirov's patrons rewarded him with a post in the newly formed Federal Security Service. The reformers were eager to destroy the old KGB and purge the diehards in its ranks. The only people they trusted to carry out that cleansing were battle-tested soldiers like Kirov, whose loyalty to the new Russia was unquestioned.
If Kirov represented a bridge to the future, Lara Telegin was that future's best hope. Educated in Russia and England, Telegin was the new breed of Russian technocrat: multilingual, worldly in her outlook, a technological wizard who knew more about the Internet and Windows than did most westerners.
But Randi had emphasized that when it came to matters of national security, the Russians were still secretive and suspicious. They could drink with you all night, regale you wit
h their most intimate or embarrassing experiences. But if you asked the wrong question about the wrong subject, offense would be taken instantly, the trust broken.
Bioaparat is about as sensitive an issue as there is, Smith thought as he was shown into Kirov's office. If Kirov takes what I tell him the wrong way, I could be back on the plane before morning.
“Dr. Jon Smith!”
Kirov's voice boomed across the room as he went over and shook Smith's hand. He was a tall, barrel-chested man with a full head of silver hair and a face that might have been stamped on a Roman coin.
“It's good to see you again,” he said. “That last time was… Geneva, five years ago. Correct?”
“Yes, it was, General.”
“Allow me to introduce my adjutant, Lieutenant Lara Telegin.”
“A pleasure, Doctor,” Telegin said, openly appraising Smith and approving what she saw.
“The pleasure is mine,” Smith replied.
He thought that with her dark eyes and raven hair, Lara Telegin was the archetypal temptress out of a nineteenth-century Russian novel, a siren who wooed otherwise rational men to their doom.
Kirov indicated the sideboard. “Can I offer you a refreshment, Dr. Smith?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well. In that case, as you Americans are so fond of saying: what's on your mind?”
Smith glanced at Lara Telegin. “No disrespect intended, Lieutenant, but the subject is highly confidential.”
“None taken, Doctor,” she replied tonelessly. “However, I am cleared for COSMIC-level material, the kind that you would take to your president. Besides, I understand that you are not here in any official capacity. Are you?”
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