Revolution

by J. S. Frankel

  “Do you remember anything else?” he asked. Her memory had largely come back over the days they’d been together, but there were still gaps. He never questioned her about it, though. Some things had to remain in the past.

  “I just remember that there are a lot of Russian customs I never cared for. This is one of them.”

  After some more sucking noises came, Farrell cleared his throat. “Just so you’re aware, Mr. Morozoff defected to the West over twenty years ago. He was just past retirement age back in Russia and didn’t like the direction that the KGB was moving in.”

  The old man stopped drinking his tea long enough to eye each and every one of his hosts without moving a muscle in his face. He didn’t look very threatening at all, but Harry felt as if he was under scrutiny by someone who knew far more than it seemed. Perhaps he’d been told about what they were and what they looked like.

  As if reading Harry’s mind, Morozoff spoke in a quiet tone. “I have heard about you, Harry Goldman. When you went to the Ukraine a few short months ago, the details of your, er, adventure were provided to me shortly afterwards by Agent Farrell.”

  “How long have you known about us?” Anastasia asked with an edge to her voice. Just being reminded of her Russian heritage and how her people had betrayed her seemed to set her off. Harry knew it by her body language. Every muscle in her frame was tensed to the max.

  “About you,” Morozoff replied, “only recently. However, the idea behind the both of you being as you are goes back many years.”

  He added that he was not a member of the active KGB. “I was trained as an accountant, and I became a record keeper for that organization. I handled disbursements to various agencies, provided logistics, and all throughout my work I kept detailed records of what went where and to whom.”

  “In practical terms, it means that one of his jobs was laundering money,” Farrell chimed in. “Over the past few years, we’ve learned a lot about which departments got money for nuclear fuel, heavy arms and where they went, not only within the old Soviet Union, but also to other countries hostile to the interests of this country. Mr. Morozoff’s testimony has helped the United States immensely.”

  Anastasia’s face got a dubious look on it. “And you call that a find? Every government agency knows that already.” She hissed at the old man, “You’re nothing more than a database operator.”

  “True,” he answered in a mild tone while looking at her. “That is what I did. But you must also understand that in the course of my duties, I came into contact with many people... the people you seek.”

  Morozoff went on to provide a richly detailed history of the KGB’s rise to preeminence through methods that were both ruthless and effective. “And we were feared,” he stated with calm assurance. “It is not something that I am proud of. At the time, we were afraid of the power that America held and were paranoid, intensely so, about what their country was like.”

  He spoke of taking notes at secret trials, meetings with scientists, doctors, industrialists, power brokers and more, all those who had the ability to turn a beaten and bankrupt country after the Second World War into a preeminent powerhouse. “From the early nineteen-fifties until the mid-seventies was the Golden Age for our expansion. We ruled athletics in many areas and we built up our military. Even our people, oppressed though they were, had limited freedom and food to eat.”

  However, time marched on and attitudes changed. “So now we come to the nineteen-eighties. Even with Glasnost, I was told by my superiors in the Kremlin that my time was limited,” Morozoff said while finishing off his tea with a noisy gulp. “I became disillusioned with how the country was being run. It was corrupt and brutal. I was no better.”

  “And you had a change of heart,” Anastasia put in, the sarcasm in her voice evident.

  Morozoff nodded. “I did. It may be hard to believe, Anastasia Yakusheva.”

  She started at the mention of her name. A sly smile came over his face. “Yes, I know who you are. Over the years, I was made privy to some names, dates, monetary accounts and more. As I met many people, it was inevitable that your name came up in conversation and it was mentioned more than a few times. Your real name is Anastasia Miriam Yakusheva. Your parents were descendants of Jewish immigrants from Latvia. You were the daughter of an alcoholic mother and father. Your mother was—”

  “A prostitute,” Anastasia finished for him in a sharp voice. “I know. I remember who I was and what was done to me by my own people. You don’t have to bring it up again.”

  Yet, here it was—Harry heard the anger and hatred in his girlfriend’s voice. He’d heard about Anastasia’s past from Nurmelev, the scientist who’d turned her into what she was. As for the revelation of her religion, it was somewhat surprising, but made little difference. He was more interested in who she was.

  According to the now-dead Nurmelev, she’d been a prostitute as well in her earlier life, contracted AIDS, and was almost dead until he turned her into what she was. Harry knew all about it and had come to terms with it. So had she. Now, this old coot was bringing it up again, and what for—to rub her nose in it?

  “I say this as someone who knows the situation for what it is. It all leads to one source,” Morozoff said. “Please be so good as to allow me to finish.”

  Anastasia growled, but said nothing else. The old man continued unperturbed by her outburst. “Times changed, and a person in my position was also subject to...” he hesitated as if searching for the proper word “... removal. I knew of too many things, did not like how those in power had abused their positions of authority, and knew that the country would one day either lay in ruins or be controlled by a dictator.” He leaned back in his chair. “I am sorry to say that both my predictions have come true.”

  Anastasia’s eyes had grown narrower by the second and her body quivered with anger. She stepped over to the old man and said something in Russian. Her voice, so knifelike, seemed to whiplash through the air. Yet, he received what had to be insults with a calmness that Harry envied. If there was one thing he never wanted to be on the receiving end of, it was her wrath. “You were part of it,” she finished off by saying in English.

  “Yes, I was part of the system, corrupt and cruel as it was,” he stated, head held high and his voice strong. “I also did many things which I thought at the time were necessary. I was wrong, and I have spent the last twenty years of my life hiding out in the USA, helping this country and giving up my secrets, those I knew. If my enemies find me, they will kill me. I am prepared for that.”

  It appeared that Anastasia still hadn’t finished her scorn-fest. “You know what my country did to me. Look at me now, old man. Look at me and tell me you’re sorry.”

  Farrell cut in by saying that while the past was painful, the present was more important. “Yeah, I get it,” Anastasia snarled at him. With her teeth bared in rage, her ire washed over the room like a flood. “Save the good Russians for our side and let the other side have the bad ones, is that it?”

  With a slow and deliberate move, Farrell pointed at the computer as if to say it held the key to everything. “We’ve made deals in the past, yes. We’ve done business with dictatorships and lowlifes and other scumbags. You can’t always get what you want, Anastasia. Believe it or not, Mr. Morozoff is here to help, and has come out of hiding in order to give us the information. He’s doing this at great risk to himself.”

  A snort came out of Anastasia’s nose. “Yeah, he’s only been living off the taxpayer’s money for twenty years, eating good food, and the rest of the Russians starve. He helped fund monsters to create monsters... to create me.” She stabbed her forefinger to her chest. “He helped to take away what life I did have. Don’t you go off and tell me about deals. I don’t want to hear it.”

  She pushed back her chair and walked off in a huff, cursing as she went. Striding over to the window, she stood there with her arms crossed and muttering dire threats.

  “So what happened?” Harry asked after glancing
at her and making sure in his mind that she wasn’t about to kick a hole in the door. “How do you know about all of this? Did you have something to do with the genetics program?”

  “Yes and no,” the old man said. “As your lady friend has indicated, I was a database keeper. Please remember that in the course of my duties, I saw and heard many things. In nineteen-seventy, certain members of my government, which included the leading scientists of the day, politicians, some businessmen and some KGB, thought that we could produce a super soldier, much like the superhero Captain America in your comic books and movies.

  “What you saw, what you and your girlfriend are now, is a direct product of what we started. It is something that your father, unaware though he was of our research, continued. It is also what Kulakov twisted for his own reasons. I am not a scientist, so I had no direct hand in doing what was done, but I knew of the programs we set in motion.”

  More details emerged. The KGB had spies in many industrial and research and development labs in Western countries. They stole secrets ranging from agricultural research to nuclear weaponry. “One of the secrets we stole was your father’s ideas on using DNA—animal DNA—to improve mankind. It was our super-soldier program, if you will. He was a most brilliant man, your father was, and you are even more brilliant.”

  The father, it always came back to the father. It seemed to Harry as if his family was the guilty party and was on trial here. “As far as I’m concerned, my father was innocent in all this. He was doing research to improve food strains,” he countered. “He warned me about playing God in the lab. I didn’t listen. But if you’re trying some kind of reverse sins of the son not the father routine, it’s all BS and you know it.”

  Morozoff shook his head. “You misunderstand, young man. You are not to blame, and neither was your father. You are a scientist, and a great one at that, perhaps the best. Your motives were pure as were your father’s. Ours were perverted. From the records I smuggled out, records which the FBI and CIA now possess, I knew that we had already begun to practice DNA manipulation even before your father began his research. However, when one of our spies notified us of what your father was doing, we had to have it.”

  It had all come to this, Harry thought. “So where does Kulakov fit in?”

  The old man’s right eye twitched and he heaved in a deep breath before replying. “I only met him once when the super-soldier program was announced. Kulakov was a most brilliant medical student, having obtained his degree at the age of twenty. He continued on in a research position at the main university in Moscow. My superior—a man named General Rostropovich who is dead now—had heard of his interest in genetic manipulation and brought him along as the chief scientific advisor within the KGB. From all reports, he exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations. He delivered results when no one else could.

  “However, like many who have superior intellect, he thought himself above others and had a lust for power. I saw the records. He conducted research and experiments under the aegis of the KGB and was never satisfied. He was the one who asked for and received funding for his research. I was the one who provided the monetary disbursements for his program. He was the one whose research created Ivan, whom you fought almost a year ago, the dog creature and many more.”

  “And he created Szabo,” Anastasia said from her position at the window. Her ears twitched.

  Morozoff, his face and manner stoic, nodded. “Yes, he created Szabo.”

  He fell silent then, staring at the empty cup. Harry sat down, trying to process all this. The man who sat across from him had spoken quite reasonably and rationally, yet he was no less a monster than Szabo... or was he? No, he decided, not a monster, just another pawn of a system bent on domination.

  Or was it that simple? Confusion reigned, and while he was thinking, Morozoff spoke up, his voice even quieter than before. “If you are wondering what kind of person I am, I will tell you. I am scum. I lied. I lied to my people. I may not have given orders that sent thousands of people to imprisonment or to their deaths—” he raised his trembling hand to wipe his lips—”but in the end, I was just as guilty, for I knew what was happening and could not lie to myself. If there is a hell, then I most assuredly belong in it. I do this now for the sake of future generations, not for money or anything else. I do not wish this madness to continue.”

  “Mr. Morozoff also defected and asked for a prison term instead of asylum,” Farrell interjected as he swiveled in his seat to look at Harry. “The United States government provided asylum. Like it or not, that was the deal we made. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

  Sick of the whole deal, the lies, the betrayals, the monsters created in the name of science, Harry smacked the table. The sharp sound startled everyone into silence. “I’ve heard it all before,” he said. “There are always tradeoffs.”

  “It is part of life,” Morozoff said in a soft voice.

  Facing down the old man, Harry went for the payoff. “Okay, so if you know so much, then you tell us where the secret labs are. That way someone can put them out of business. If it’s not us, then it can be someone from those countries.”

  A deep sigh came from him. “That, I am not sure of.”

  “Smoke and mirrors,” Anastasia snorted from afar and stabbed her forefinger at the old man. “He’s been playing us all this time—”

  “Cut it!” Farrell snapped. “Listen up and we may all learn something.”

  A look of annoyance crept over Morozoff’s face. “What I have told you is the truth. Kulakov is the person that you are looking for. It cannot be anyone else.”

  Doubt had already crept into Harry’s mind. He glanced over at Farrell, whose face wore a dubious expression as well. Anastasia’s eyes glittered angrily. It seemed as though she didn’t care who was behind this. All she cared was getting some payback. “Uh,” Harry said, “don’t get me wrong, but how can you be sure it’s Kulakov? I mean, he’d be in his mid-seventies by now, right? So maybe it’s his son or a relative or—”

  “It is him,” Morozoff insisted. His mouth set in a straight line. “From the records I saw, from the inception of the program to its fruition, there could be no one else. He never married, and he had no siblings. He had protégés, Nurmelev and Grushenko, but they were not his equal. All of this, you, your lady friend, the other mutated specimens—they are all products of his diseased mind.”

  He sank back in his chair. “However, I have been out of Russia for too long. My contacts are either dead or are too old to do anything. Additionally, I have no way of knowing if the original labs have been moved or not.”

  So they were back to square one, Harry thought and then had an idea. “We’ve already been to Hungary,” he said. “The lab there was destroyed. But there are other reports of attacks in Serbia and in Russia. I just got word that two people were killed there yesterday.”

  Had Szabo been able to return that quickly? It didn’t seem possible. And what was the endgame in all this? Szabo wanted to build his own little world, transform those who wanted to be transformed and go his own way. Kulakov had other designs, but what? How were they working together? Moreover, would he simply let his underling do what he wanted?

  All those thoughts and more circulated in his mind until a tap on his shoulder startled him back to reality. Anastasia had crept over to his position and he hadn’t even heard her. He had to watch that. His girlfriend was one thing, but he couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not against Szabo or any of the other enhanced. “What is it?” he asked.

  “You’ve got that broody look again, boyfriend. What are you thinking of?”

  “Just wondering how fast it took Szabo to get back to Russia, if he went there at all,” he answered.

  Farrell cut in, his face grim. “They’re way ahead of us. My guess is that they still have contacts over here, private planes—the works. But my info shows that while Russia has had the most attacks, the most recent ones were in Serbia. Szabo won’t be going back to Hungary, so my gue
ss is that he went to Serbia.”

  Anastasia’s face had a slightly more relaxed look to it. “It doesn’t make sense for him to go back to Russia. The authorities will be waiting.” She speared Morozoff with a glare. “Won’t they?”

  He nodded. “Perhaps they will. I do not know how many friends Kulakov still has. If he has managed to survive all this time, then he might have found another secret hideout. Russia is a vast country.”

  “Added to that, if Szabo has any more monsters on his side, then he might be setting a trap,” Farrell put in.

  He would have to mention the obvious, Harry thought. As well, the idea of taking on more of the enhanced made his heart zoom into the redline zone. Szabo was the technician, the fighter. He wasn’t.

  The Hungarian shark was also way more dangerous than he’d figured on. And while anyone could see that he liked to kill, combined with his intelligence, it made him a person to watch out for—watch out for and fear. Shifting his gaze to Anastasia, he got a shock. Fear also lurked in her eyes. She’d never been afraid of anyone before. She was now.

  Before he could say anything, though, Farrell dug his smartphone from his pocket, punched in a few numbers and a small map appeared. “This is Belgrade. The attacks were roughly fifty miles north of there. We can get into Belgrade if I pull the proper strings with the State Department and have a guide meet you, Anastasia and Istvan once you’re over there.”

  “I suppose this is another off-the-books plan?” Anastasia asked. “Covert and quiet, just the way you like it?” She said this all with a blank expression, but her voice could have cut through steel.

  “What do you think?” Farrell answered, annoyed. “We have to keep this as quiet as possible. You’ll have backup, don’t worry.”

  A noise at the top of the stairs made them look up. Istvan stood at the railing, rubbing his eyes and yawning. In a sleepy voice he asked, “Where are we going?”