by Tim Tigner
Victor’s hand dropped from the back of her neck, and for a moment the two of them continued to stand there, stunned and staring. Then Victor clenched another fistful of her hair and began to drag her back toward the door. As her head twisted, Anna’s eyes came to rest on another figure. Standing up in the pulpit, as though presiding over the scene, was Alex.
Chapter 66
NOVOSIBIRSK, SIBERIA
Alex snapped out of the spell to the sound of someone screaming his name. He shifted his gaze toward the source of the scream and found that the unbelievable scene was now positively surreal. By what Alex could only assume was yet another act of God, the man who had killed his brother a month before and half a world away was miraculously there before him now, holding the woman who had saved his life.
Jason looked up, and they locked eyes. Then Jason resumed dragging Anna from the church by her long auburn hair.
Alex leapt down from the pulpit and began racing toward the front of the church, ignoring the pain in his feet and the fact that his hands were still cuffed. If Jason had a gun, the fight would be over before it began, but Alex wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let Jason cart Anna away.
It flashed across Alex’s mind as he closed the gap that the man he now pursued with a bloodlust in his eyes was his half brother. In fact, the two men in that church were the only direct blood relations he had left. Alex had not found the energy to analyze that news while in captivity—it was one hurdle too many for his already overtaxed mind—and there was no time to start now.
As Alex rushed at his nemesis from the front of the church, the doors crashed open in the back and a team of soldiers flooded into the nave. Alex’s heart sank even as his legs pumped. He would not even get an unfair fight.
The shocking sight of the soldiers caused Jason to slacken his grip. Anna seized the opportunity to bite his arm. As Jason recoiled, Anna kneed him in the stomach and then lunged back—right into a stone pillar. Jason recovered quickly and drew back his arm to punch her, but before he could release the blow, two soldiers picked him up and threw him to the stone floor.
Alex was not sure if they planned to arrest him as well, but he knew that there was no sense in trying to run. He looped his cuffed hands around Anna and pulled her body to his. Anna hugged him back so tightly that it would have been painful even under normal circumstances, but after a week at the Karpov Hilton, her affection was absolutely agonizing. He didn’t mind. He tried to run his fingers through her hair but the handcuffs hindered his tender gesture.
A third voice chimed in unexpectedly from behind. “Let me give you a hand with those.”
Alex and Anna banged foreheads as they turned to face the speaker. Before them was a thin, elderly man with a crinkled face and a monkish fringe.
“Hello, Alex. So nice to meet you at last.”
Alex recognized the distinctive timbre of the diplomat’s voice before placing the famous face. For better or worse, the buck was going to stop here. “Minister Sugurov?”
Chapter 67
NOVOSIBIRSK, SIBERIA
As the peasants swarmed over him like a pack of dogs on so many bones, Karpov found himself frozen in time. Paralyzed in mind and body. He looked up at Alex as though for the first time—the contour of his jaw, the line of his hair—and knew without question that Alex had spoken the truth.
Karpov was only vaguely aware of the crowd knocking him to the ground. His son’s words were crashing over him like a tidal wave, and they drowned out everything else. Time slowed. First he got the feeling that something momentous was coming, then it hit, and he found himself struggling in a sea of disorientation, desperate for air in his lungs and grounding for his feet. Every time he tried to breathe, another wave was upon him:
Alex was his son . . .
He had tortured his own son . . .
Alex was a twin . . .
Frank was also his son . . .
Victor had murdered his own brother . . .
As the conclusions crashed relentlessly down, Karpov felt his defenses washing away, exposing him to the ghosts of the past. Eleven years ago a door had shut with the hiss of a hermetic seal—and locked his soul inside. Karpov understood that now. His son’s powerful revelation had broken that seal, and now he lay exposed.
Even as his body lay dying, his soul was struggling to breathe, but the pathway was choked. His sins were piled up like starving beggars at a soup kitchen’s door, and the muddle stretched as far as his eye could see. He began to tremble. First in line were six young men, scientists each, with broken ribs and blood-frothed mouths. He remembered. He understood. Six men had lost their lives that momentous day, but seven bodies had surrendered their souls. What had he done? What had he done . . .
Chapter 68
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
Alex was living at the Kremlin dacha known simply as Gorky Eight. His foray into this icon of Soviet luxury had begun exactly one month from the date of Frank’s death. Was there anything more elastic than time, he wondered. How many lifetimes had he packed into those thirty days? And it wasn’t over yet . . .
Two weeks had passed since the reckoning in the church, and it was now Christmas Eve in America. Alex had ricocheted through a wide range of emotions between those famous walls, coming to grips with what he had learned about his family history . . . and about himself.
With his own fate in the balance and virgin Christmas snow falling all around, Alex found himself feeling particularly charitable. He seized the opportunity to forgive his fathers, both of them.
There were dozens of victims of the Karpov conspiracy, not the least of which was Vasily Karpov himself. Alex understood that Karpov made the sad mistake of believing that the grandest of ends could justify the vilest of means. Although those vile means would haunt Alex for the rest of his life, he drew comfort from the knowledge that Karpov’s grandest ends were exactly that. You could not fundamentally condemn a man for wanting to make his country great again.
As for his half brother Jason—Victor would always be Jason to Alex—he was less charitable. Genes did not a brother make. Jason’s circumstances were extreme, Alex granted him that, but his motives were base, and that made all the difference. Perhaps his harsh view would mellow with time, but meanwhile he was content to let the Soviet justice system do with Jason what it would.
Then there was the question of how Alex felt about himself, now that the whole mess turned out to be a family affair. After a lot of back and forth, Alex decided to judge himself as he judged others: by his actions.
He had made good on his vow to Elaine, even if she didn’t know it yet. He had fulfilled Andrey’s dying request, even if Andrey would never know it. Alex had saved the Kimberlies of the world, those that were, and those that never would be. And, perhaps most importantly to Alex personally, he had lived up to the promise he had made to himself by his brother’s grave. Frank would be proud.
That brought Alex to where he was today. Although he was not formally under house arrest at Gorky Eight, he knew he would encounter uncomfortable resistance should he try to leave the Russian Camp David. The same went for phone calls. So Alex decided to do the sensible thing for a change. He treated his time at Gorky Eight as a vacation at a reclusive health spa. That was what he would choose to do anyway, if he were free to choose. He breakfasted on hot blinis, ate his weight in Beluga caviar for lunch, and dined on smoky shashlik washed down with the finest Georgian wines. He took long, meditative walks along snowy trails, and basted his bones with medicinal balms in the presidential banya. He had no need to stretch his imagination to make confinement bearable this time, and his feet were feeling better, too.
His stay at Gorky Eight also gave Alex the chance to grieve for Frank properly. With the murder solved, the conspiracy that led to it all but wrapped up, and those responsible either dead or in jail, he could finally lay Frank to rest. The snowy trails of the surrounding woods proved
to be the perfect place for releasing the rage that had driven him these past weeks, and remembering the love for the man who inspired it.
Minister Sugurov informed him that Anna had been reunited with her mother and that they would be returned home safe and sound after a similar vacation. He spent a lot of time thinking about her. He didn’t know if there was a future for them, but he wanted to find out. Absence was making his heart grow fonder.
Of course he didn’t know if he had a future. The issues at hand were not of a criminal nature, at least as far as Alex’s involvement was concerned. State security was the problem. The government of Russia had to decide how to deal with the remnants and ramifications of the Karpov conspiracy. Like it or not, Alex had to respect the fact that that might not include his freedom.
Minister Sugurov had told him that it would probably take a couple of weeks. That was exactly how long it took before Alex was summoned to Gorky Eight’s presidential study. Given the way his fate rested in one great man’s hands, Alex felt as though he had been summoned before Pharaoh.
Twenty minutes and a not-unfriendly frisking later, Alex was standing before two dwarfing guards and a massive oak door. He experienced a wave of nausea as the memory of Frick and Frank flashed through his mind, but their image vanished when the guards parted to reveal the presidential seal.
Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev sat before a roaring fire in a high-backed leather armchair. Alex felt a sudden pang for brandy, but, alas, the stereotypical crystal decanter was not a part of the scene. He inhaled deeply, drawing the room’s smoky aura down to the bottom of his lungs and calming his nerves. Then the guards closed the doors as the president looked up from his newspaper.
Alex tried to read Gorbachev’s expression and body language, but got nothing. No surprise there. The man was a professional diplomat and this was their first meeting.
“Good morning, Mr. Ferris. Please have a seat.” Gorbachev motioned to his chair’s twin. Alex took this as a good sign.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Has your stay been comfortable?”
Alex thought Gorbachev looked tired. He was not here on vacation, nor was he made up for the camera. Still, his eyes conveyed a clarity of thought and a presence of mind that were worth far more than a few strokes from a makeup artist’s brush.
“Yes, sir. I thank you for that.”
“It is I, we,” he gestured around, “who must thank you, Alex. You have done a great service for the people of the Soviet Union.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I am sure you understand that what you have uncovered is exceptionally sensitive information. Diplomatically, politically, economically, the knowledge you possess, if leaked, could be disastrous for the Russian people. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You are aware, I am sure, how certain of my predecessors would have, shall we say, kept things quiet?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Alex answered anyway. “I believe Comrade Stalin’s favorite phrase was, ‘No person, no problem.’”
The fire cracked during the ensuing silence, and a glowing ember sprang onto the marble hearth. Gorbachev frowned and nodded slowly but did not comment further. He obviously had their conversation mapped out, and did not plan to deviate from his predetermined course.
“I differ from General Karpov in that I do not believe that good things can grow from evil roots. History has shown us time and again that the easy way out does not make things easy, not in the long run. For that reason, I would like to believe that we, you and I, Alex, can come to an agreement.
“I will tell you what we are going to do. Then you will tell me if you can live with my decisions, if that course of action will satisfy the sense of justice that so obviously drives you.” He paused and looked at Alex above the rims of his gilded glasses. “I am sure that it will. Thus agreed, we will shake hands on this as gentlemen. Then we will part, never to speak of the Karpov conspiracy again. To anyone.”
“It would be my honor, and my pleasure, Mr. President.”
“Excellent. Minister Sugurov had assured me of as much.
“The first issue that I have had to deal with is the fate of Karpov’s factories. Although privatized, the factories have reverted to state ownership as a result of the crimes of Karpov and his associates. He acquired them with stolen capital. That leaves the decision of their disposal totally within my control. I have decided that the Soviet Union will keep the factories, their management, and their general manufacturing know-how, given that those are all Russian resources. The stolen intellectual property, however, will all be abandoned.”
“You’re going to scrap the product lines in their entirety?” Alex asked, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.
Gorbachev did not flinch. “In their entirety. This decision was a difficult one, given that what Russia needs most is a competitive industrial base. But that’s why one maintains a belief system, so he has something to stick to when the decisions get tough. And believe me, Alex, this decision was tough—especially when it came to the photovoltaic bricks. You know, nothing remains of the company or the people who invented them. Karpov wiped it from the Earth as though it were never there. When we abandon it, that groundbreaking technology will be lost to the human race, if only temporarily.”
Alex was shocked. “If I may say so, Mr. President, your approach is most admirable. I can’t say that I truly believe that my president would have the courage to be so . . . virtuous.”
Gorbachev’s lips tightened with a hint of appreciation, but he did not respond. Instead, he continued.
“The second, and perhaps even more sensitive issue, Alex, is the Peitho Pill. That decision did not require a virtuous man, just a sane one. It is my firm belief that as long as the Peitho Pill exists on this Earth, nobody will truly be safe. Not even those who consider themselves its masters. It’s easy to make big decisions when one’s children are safe. The Peitho Pill severs sacred alliances: man and country, mother and child. It is the seed of the Devil, and to him it must be returned. All devices, all instructions, all descriptions, all blueprints and records, and any evidence of Peitho that exists anywhere are to be destroyed immediately. Peitho is to be buried, and I will do my best to see to it that it is never resurrected.”
“Sir, when you say all evidence . . . ?”
“No, Alex, I am not going to have anybody killed. Peitho will go out the same way she came in. Victor Titov was kind enough to reveal the secret to Peitho’s safe removal. Her victims will soon have their devices removed—quietly, unknowingly, while they sleep.”
“So they will never know that they’re free?”
Gorbachev held up his hand. “They will know, but only after their pill has been surgically removed and the incision has healed. I would like you to play a role in that process, but you can discuss those details later with Minister Sugurov. Meanwhile, I should inform you that there is one exception, of course.” Gorbachev raised his eyebrows.
It took Alex a moment before the welcome revelation hit him. “My implant?”
“Gone.”
Alex slowly let out his breath. They had drugged and operated on him while he slept. It was a disturbing thought, but better than the alternative. It had occurred to Alex that Gorbachev might choose to leave him Peithoed as a means of ensuring that he kept the Karpov conspiracy a secret.
With the Peitho threat removed, his mind was free to move on to other things. “And what about the device used to paralyze Frank?”
“That would be Medusa. Let us just say that the same strategy applies. She will meet her Perseus.”
“So nobody will ever look her in the eye again,” Alex added, thinking aloud.
Gorbachev gave another somber nod.
Understanding that his audience was over, Alex got up to leave, humbled, awed, and relieved. But the grea
t man stopped him in his tracks.
“Alex—”
Alex turned around nervously.
“My handshake.”
Chapter 69
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
The foreign minister turned from the panoramic view of Moscow to look Alex in the eye. “You understand, Alex—that I had to make sure the state’s interests were secure before confiding in you.”
“I do understand. Of course I’ve been very curious these past two weeks, but since you assured me that Anna would be fine, I wasn’t distraught. I trust that her condition has not changed?”
“You have my word on that.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, to bring you up to date. I intend to answer all your questions at this time so that you will never have to ask another one.” He paused to make sure this message got through, then continued.
“As you know, Vasily Karpov is dead.”
Alex nodded. Apparently no mention of their biological relationship would be made here.
“Victor Titov, aka Jason Stormer, did not get off so easily.”
“Lubyanka?”
“Lubyanka. I was there when they logged him in. The warden, Comrade Lebed, is a Peitho survivor. I have no doubt that as we speak Victor is receiving the best they have to offer.”
Alex nodded. He would have to examine his thoughts on the fate of his half brother later. Perhaps much later. The realization that he had the blood of a psychopath coursing through his veins was simmering on the back burner of his mind. He did not want to think about it now.
Sugurov removed his glasses and began to clean them with his handkerchief. “So much for what is awkward for you. Now we come to what is awkward for me. Before I tell you that, I should say that when I am done, I hope that we can still be friends. I will understand, however, if you feel that we cannot.”