by Tim Tigner
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013, 2015 Tim Tigner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503944367
ISBN-10: 1503944360
Cover design by Chelsea Wirtz
This novel is dedicated to my beloved wife, Elena, whose support and sacrifices made it possible.
CONTENTS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
“We had no . . .
Prologue
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART II
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
PART III
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
PART IV
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Alex Ferris: International Private Investigator.
Andrey Demerko: Chief of Staff for Minister Sugurov.
Anna Zaitseva: Doctor at Academic City Hospital.
Elaine Evans: Engineer at United Electronics.
Frank Ferris: Alex’s fraternal twin brother.
Igor Stepashin: KGB Head of the Guards Directorate.
Jason Stormer: Head of Stormer & Associates.
Knyaz AG: Karpov’s company.
Knyaz: Name for Karpov’s inner circle.
Kostya Zaitsev: Anna’s brother (deceased).
Leo Antsiferov: Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Luda Orlova: Senior Accountant at SibOil.
Maximov: KGB Major and Aide to Karpov.
Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev: President of USSR.
Pavel Sugurov: Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Professor Petrov: Anna’s patient.
Sergey Shipilov: KGB Agent working for Yarik.
Vasily Karpov: KGB Head of Industrial Security.
Victor Titov: Deep-cover KGB mole. Karpov’s son.
Vova: Male nurse at Academic City Hospital.
Yarik: KGB Head of the Executive Action Directorate.
“We had no idea the Soviets were ripping off our technology so skillfully, so comprehensively, so effectively, right under our noses.”
—Richard N. Perle, Assistant Secretary of Defense
Prologue
KGB RESEARCH FACILITY, SIBERIA, 1979
The door closed behind them with a hiss. General Vasily Karpov knew it was the hermetic seal, but he couldn’t help feeling that the room was scolding him for what he was about to do.
He looked up at Yarik for support—the giant was a pro—but the steely stare coming back at him was somehow more disturbing than the images Karpov sought to drown out, and he looked away. Karpov appreciated Yarik’s point of view and respected the enforcer’s binary code of ethics, but as a chess grand master he had a hard time reducing things to a simple them-or-us. He wanted to do better.
In contrast, General Igor Stepashin’s face showed a calm, supportive resolve. It meant little to Karpov. As a diplomat, Stepashin always showed the appropriate emotion. To know his true state of mind you had to look deep. Karpov chose not to look. This might be a classic moral conundrum, but it was hardly a dilemma. The needs of the many did outweigh the needs of the few.
As their country’s future president, Karpov felt compelled to demonstrate leadership, to make a meaningful speech about posterity and sacrifice, but there was no room in that sterile corridor for such big words. Instead, he looked down at the detonator in his hand and thought about the future—first the country’s, and then, with mixed feelings, his own. Murder changes a man . . .
He pressed the red button.
Karpov could not see or hear what happened on the other side of the laboratory door, but as the head of the KGB’s Scientific and Technical Directorate, he knew how Noxin nerve gas worked. The moment he closed the door he found himself picturing the scene. It was as though he were still in the room. A part of his soul always would be.
He pictured the six scientists and engineers shaking hands and patting backs, congratulating each other on the successful completion and flawless presentation of the Peitho Pill. It was a feel-good moment, and they were justifiably proud, having dedicated eighteen months of their lives to secretly developing their general’s audacious invention.
Then a whiff of gas turned their euphoria to hysteria, flooding their bodies with adrenaline as their limbic minds registered the alkaloid scent. But no act or agent could reverse the crushing hyperconstriction of their diaphragms. Their emptied lungs would never fill again. Noxin could not be denied.
Karpov bowed his head and clenched his eyes, but images of futile gasps and grimaced lips kept coming. He opened his eyes and tried to focus his mind on the cascading numbers of his digital watch. He had known all along that this day would come. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty—sixty seconds since detonation. No doubt they were frantically pumping each other’s chests—desperate minds grasping at feeble straws. By now Kiril had paired up with Dima, Oleg with Anton, and Vanya with Mark. As professionals, they knew it was pointless, but as family men, what alternative did they have? They would keep at it until splintering ribs punctured starving lungs or exhaustion overtook them . . .
He kicked the corridor’s stainless baseboard
. “No matter. They’re martyrs now, even if only we three will ever know.” Yarik and Stepashin cocked their heads, but Karpov paid them no heed. He had not meant to think aloud.
It was true, he thought. The sacrifice those scientists were making here today gave him the exclusive use of the Peitho Pill and with it, the power to heal their ailing nation. The Soviet Union was in desperate need of a viable economic system, and Peitho empowered Karpov to create one. What were half a dozen lives in comparison?
Karpov stopped pacing the corridor and checked his watch again. It would take another ten minutes for the laboratory’s advanced ventilation system to scrub the Noxin from the air. Then the three general officers could reenter, retrieve all the Peitho Pill materials, and replace them with ones from the Noxin nerve gas project. The cover-up would be as airtight as the laboratory, and Peitho would be theirs alone.
Stepashin interrupted the silence. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Karpov. You told us it was going to be huge, but the opportunities Peitho presents seem limitless. We’ll be able to control anyone, get anything—”
“And do it secretly,” Yarik interjected. “Wish I’d thought of it.”
Karpov stopped pacing and looked up. If his friends were not distracted by sentiment . . . He felt the fire reigniting in his eyes, like the pilot light on a blast furnace. “I have the advantage of seeing a lot of gadget and gizmo proposals in the course of my job. One of them got me thinking. It was a special bomb, a bomb designed to blow up a car at the prompting of a radio signal. It was the size of a pea,” he held up his thumb and index finger in the tiny sign, “small enough to slip into a car’s gas tank. That was the mental trigger, the size of the thing. I reasoned that if you paired up one of its miniature radio receivers with a single drop of the lab’s latest poison, you could then threaten to do the same thing to a person—terminate him at will, I mean.”
A flash of understanding shot across Yarik’s face. He’d always enjoyed an intuitive grasp of the military tactics. “But we won’t use it for that, for termination, will we?”
“No, we won’t. We’re going to get creative . . .”
PART I
Chapter 1
SIBERIA, AUGUST 1990
A powerful gust of wind shook the helicopter and yanked Deputy Minister Leo Antsiferov out of his contemplative trance. As his sweaty hand clenched the bucking joystick, his eyes refocused their thousand-yard stare on the wild surroundings. The craggy peaks and crinkled slopes of the Siberian outback were breathtaking in the moonlight. Leo used to find peace while flying in conditions like these, but tonight his mind was as blustery as the weather. There were too many reminders.
First, there was his passenger, Andrey Demerko. Sitting down in the gunner’s seat, Andrey was as perceptive as a man could be, yet ignorant as the rocks over which they flew. He had once been Leo’s good friend—in fact Andrey still believed he was—but Leo was no friend to him, not really.
Then, there was the date. In three hours the sun would rise on the first anniversary of Leo’s conscription. He found it hard to believe that only a year had passed since he was last a happy man, with a loving family, interesting work, and great prospects. Now he had dismal prospects, repulsive work, and an estranged wife. But little Georgy was still alive, so Leo had made a good trade.
He switched the helicopter’s joystick to his left hand so he could wipe away tears with his right. Then he went back a year in his mind, playing over once again the dreadful night it all began, picking at the scab of a wound that would not heal.
Leo remembered how peacefully that fateful evening had started. Only the thunderstorm raging outside hinted at the danger hidden within their Moscow apartment. Oxana was off visiting her sister; Maya and Georgy lay tucked in their beds, and his work was in order: check, check, and check. This combination gave Leo the ever-welcome opportunity to enjoy a good book the right way.
He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, Crime and Punishment from the bookshelf, and sank into his favorite leather armchair. These stolen hours and his children’s loving smiles made Leo feel like the luckiest man alive.
He was deep into both the novel and the bottle when the phone finally disturbed his cherished reprieve. It was midnight. He set down Dostoyevsky and picked up the cordless receiver, answering without preamble: “How was your trip?”
“Listen to me very carefully.” The voice was cold and computerized, its tone commanding. “Go to Maya’s room.”
Leo suffered a momentary mental delay something like a power glitch, then shock, fear, rage, and panic all ran their courses in a millisecond, jolting his synapses and neutralizing the vodka. He pulled the phone away from his ear, clutching it like a venomous snake while his mind and body accelerated to combat speed. He ran to the master bedroom and retrieved his handgun from the lockbox under the bed. The Makarov felt oddly heavy in his hand, reminding Leo that his days in uniform were well behind him now. He prayed his reflexes had not atrophied along with his muscles.
Leo arrived at the door to his daughter’s room just twenty seconds after the phone’s first ring. He found Maya peacefully asleep in her bed, but resisted the temptation to dismiss the caller outright. Instead, he stepped back to think. It wasn’t easy with his heart playing timpani on his eardrums. There was no place in the room for an adult to hide, and the window was twelve stories up. It was a long shot, but Leo looked out anyway: nothing but the full moon above and the empty road below. He let out a deep breath and Maya stirred, causing the moonlight to dance in her hair. She looked like an angel with a halo of curly blond locks—Leo froze. Little Georgy also had curly blond hair, and his mother kept it a little too long, perhaps . . . No!
Leo ran to his boy’s room and popped around the doorframe ready to fire. He found . . . nothing. Georgy, too, was quietly asleep in his bed.
Leo walked back to Maya’s room and sat on the edge of her bed. Only practiced, diplomatic nerves kept him in check as he picked up the receiver again.
“I’m there.”
“Good boy. Now, tell me today’s pass codes for the Ministry mainframe.”
The Ministry the caller referred to was Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where Leo was one of six deputy ministers. Handing over the computer pass codes would be like tipping Russia’s hand at dozens of high-stakes international poker games. Other government organizations might have their books cooked for appearance’s sake, but negotiators at the MFA had to know what was of true strategic importance to Russia, and what was propaganda.
“I can’t do that.”
The mechanical voice did not waver at the rebuff. “Of course you can, Leo. It is a simple choice, a trade really. You give me the codes, and I let your daughter live.”
Leo’s heart jumped back into his throat as the percussion recommenced in his ears. He threw down the phone and raced to the front door, his finger poised on the Makarov’s trigger. All was quiet. He checked and double-checked the black-and-white screen of the intercom, unsure if he should trust the fuzzy image. The guard appeared to be at his post. Leo pushed the talk button. “Anything unusual to report, Arkady?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Thank you. Keep a watchful eye; I think something may be up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Enough with diplomacy. Leo returned to his daughter’s room and picked up the receiver. Maya was still sleeping so he spoke softly, but firmly. “Go to hell!”
“No, Deputy Antsiferov, it is your daughter who is going to hell, and you are the one who is sending her there. Last chance, Leo. The codes. Do not make me do it.”
The speaker sounded sober and sincere. Leo clenched his jaw. He was by his daughter’s bed, gun in hand, guard at door. In all probability it was a Ministry security check—severe but not without precedent.
“No.”
Three simple words followed, words that made it difficult for him to ask for anyt
hing ever again: “As you wish.”
The scene that followed burned itself into Leo’s retinas, and a year later he knew it would be there every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his life. Little Maya suddenly lifted her curly locks and opened her big blue eyes to look up at him with a scared look on her angelic face. She said, “Papa” in her sweet soprano, trembled as though possessed, and then she died.
Leo stared in disbelief. It was as though someone had turned out a light, Maya’s light, the light of his life. His angel was dead.
Sometime later—whether seconds or hours he was not sure—Leo remembered the telephone. He peeled himself off his daughter’s corpse and picked up the receiver.
“I’ll get you! I’ll get you if—”
“Listen, Leo. Listen.” The mechanical voice cut him off with its icy command. “Go to Georgy’s room.”
Chapter 2
SIBERIA, AUGUST 1990
This is no time for self-pity, Leo thought. You have a problem to solve.
Problem to solve? More like disaster to avert. With one careless slip of the tongue, just a few superfluous words in a bar, he had set his friend Andrey up to receive a similar midnight call with an offer he couldn’t refuse. Leo had to undo what he had done, and quickly. Each sweep of the helicopter’s rotors brought Andrey that much closer to sharing his hell. The question was how.
Cruel coincidence had brought both Leo and Andrey to the same city and the same hotel on the same evening. Fate had picked up the job from there. Somewhere in the endless stream of vodka and war stories Leo had let it slip that he was piloting a helicopter to Novosibirsk early in the morning. Then, as if prompted by the Devil’s own cue, Foreign Minister Sugurov had called his chief of staff: he needed Andrey in Moscow.
“We’re in luck, sir. Leo is here with me, and he happens to be flying to Novosibirsk in a few hours. If I go with him, I can catch the early flight from there. That will get me to the Ministry by ten.”
Leo had choked on his drink as he heard those words. That was six hours ago. He still tasted the vodka.