by Mark Terry
“Golden Ring Hotel,” he said. He might as well go there, he thought. He had reservations.
The driver looked over at him and muttered something in Russian. “I don’t speak Russian,” Derek said, already tired of saying it.
The driver shrugged and kicked the cab into drive. He drove a couple blocks and pulled in front of the Golden Ring Hotel, a gold high-rise, which was across the street from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Derek figured the man had said something along the lines of, “It’s around the corner, dumbass, sure you don’t want to walk?”
He paid the cabbie and walked into the lobby, which was beautiful, as a five-star hotel should be. Polished wood floors, glamorous lighting, dark wood. The clerk at the desk eyed him suspiciously. And why not? He looked a lot like a guy who’d been mugged, tossed in a car trunk, drugged, left in a pile of slush, and thrown into jail. The lobby was empty except for a woman wearing black boots, black slacks and a black wool coat. Her straight black hair was worn to her shoulders. She watched him walk in, but her expression was neutral.
The clerk said something in Russian and Derek shook his head. “American,” he said.
“May I help you?”
“I have reservations. Derek Stillwater.”
The clerk checked him into the hotel and handed him the room keys, frownin
the entire time. Derek turned to head for the elevator only to find that the woman in black was standing behind him. “Dr. Derek Stillwater,” she said. “I’m Erica Kirov.”
“Good for you,” he said.
“I’m with the embassy.”
“U.S., I hope.” Derek moved away from the desk because the clerk was listening with interest. Glancing at his watch, Derek said, “You’ve been waiting for me all this time?”
“I was planning on picking you up at the airport, but I was running late and missed you. Have you been out drinking?”
“Not exactly.” He studied her. Indeterminate age, maybe mid-forties, maybe older. Heart-shaped face. American, despite the name. Attractive, smart, a totally unknown factor. He pointed at the elevator. “I’d really like to get off my feet.” Suddenly turning back to the clerk, he asked him if any of the restaurants or room service was open.
The clerk shook his head. Kirov stepped up and rattled something off in Russian. With a nod the clerk disappeared into the office behind the desk.
“Let’s go,” she said. “He’s getting some food for you. A couple sandwiches. That work?”
“Yes, and thank you.”
“This meal’s on the embassy. You’re apparently a friend of the Secretary, so you must be worth paying a little extra to order from an open restaurant.”
Once the elevator doors closed, Derek leaned back against the wall without pushing a button. “Credentials, please.”
A slight smile crossed Kirov’s face. “Why wait until now?”
“Because the clerk was nosy.”
She reached into a handbag. Derek tensed. It had been that kind of day. Kirov studied him again. “It’s okay,” she said. “Just getting my ID.”
A moment later she handed him a passport and an ID badge from the U.S. embassy. He studied it. “What’s your position at the embassy?”
“I’m a foreign policy specialist. I’ll be assisting you while you’re here.”
Derek shot her a skeptical look. “Foreign policy specialist?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice and vague. How about the INR?” The Bureau of Intelligence and Research was the State Department’s intelligence arm. And typically any CIA staffers stationed at U.S. embassies were given State Department cover stories.
Kirov leaned out and pressed the button for the sixth floor. “Foreign policy specialist. How’s your Russian?”
“Slim to none.”
“Have you been to Russia before?”
“Yes, but it’s been a while.”
She nodded.
They got off at his floor and he led the way to his room and let himself in. He blocked her from coming in after him. “Would you please go find me some ice?”
She eyed him. “Sure. But I’ll need—”
Shutting the door in her face he disappeared into the room and came out a moment later with the ice bucket. When she walked down the hallway he closed the door, put the safety chain on and used the phone to collect his email. There was a brief message from Secretary Mandalevo.
Hope your trip went well. Your liaison is Erica Kirov. She will assist you in any way she can. She will describe your job.
Derek contemplated the word “job,” wondering what the hell Mandalevo was talking about.
At the knock at the door he peered through the peephole, saw Kirov standing there, and let her in.
“Ah, good,” he said, and took the ice bucket from her. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He returned with two washcloths, poured ice into them, kicked off his shoes, crashed into a chair and held one ice pack to the aching lump on the back of his head and the other on his other wrist, which was badly bruised. “Secretary Mandalevo indicates you’ll describe my job. Tell me. I’m starting to fade.”
5
The truck traveled from Moscow south toward Volgograd, then toward the Caspian Sea. The truck held the device that Pavel Botkin had designed, as well as a number of other weapons that had been stolen from military bases, including the special weapons depots in Novosibirsk. The two men who drove the truck finally made it to Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea in the Republic of Dagestan, passing oil wells and natural gas pipelines as they approached the city.
The driver, Andrei, smoked continuously, his fingers as yellow as his teeth. Short, muscular, with cropped black hair, he had an expression on his face as if his teeth hurt. To his partner, Feodor, he said, “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
“It’s the middle of the goddamned night. When do we meet them?”
“In two hours. Z has something planned for the morning. Best we unload this crap before that. Things are going to heat up.”
Feodor was young, nineteen, and looked it. Blond hair, innocent blue eyes, he didn’t even shave. Women loved him. At least until they got to know him, because he was angry. Always angry. Angry at the world. Angry at women. Angry at the government. Feodor hated everyone and everything and was determined to get back at it. He felt he owed the world that. It was what he liked about Z and the Red Hand. They were going to get back at everyone. The Red Hand helped focus Feodor’s anger, gave it a target.
Feodor said, “You know the location?”
Andrei gestured at the GPS unit on the dashboard. “Warehouse near the waterfront. They’re expecting us. But I want a drink.”
“Unload this shit and have a drink afterward. Fuck. I’ll buy.”
They followed the directions of the nice woman’s voice on the GPS, the gantries and cranes of the docks rising up to meet them beyond a landscape of corrugated metal and concrete warehouses. The air smelled of ocean brine, burning natural gas, and fuel oil.
Finally, among the sea of warehouses, Andrei pulled up to a long, flat building two blocks from the ocean. He sat back, engine idling, smoking another cigarette.
“What’re we waiting for?”
“For these fuckin’ towelheads to come out and say hello. Antsy bunch, don’t want them to blow our fuckin’ heads off.”
“How long do we have to—”
Feodor’s question was answered when two men appeared out of the shadows, each carrying an AK47. Dressed in dark cargo pants and T-shirt, they were Iranian, in their twenties.
“Get out,” one of them said.
Andrei blew smoke toward him. “Not very fuckin’ polite.”
The Iranian didn’t respond, merely waited, dark eyes blank, expression neutral. Feodor said, “Oh for fuck’s sake,” and jumped out of the truck, stepping into the gunman’s space. “No games, dammit. You know who we are?”
The Iranian on the driver’s side said, “Don’t care. What we wan
t to know is what you’ve got.”
Andrei tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and climbed out of the truck. “You know what we’ve got. You made the deposit. We’ll let you check it out. Then you make the final payment and it’s all yours. We just deliver.”
The second Iranian tried to peer into the back of the truck, but Andrei said, “Are you crazy? Inside.”
They nodded and gestured for Andrei to climb back in, but they wanted Feodor to walk with them. Crazy sand niggers, Andrei thought, dropping his cigarette to the ground. Climbing back behind the wheel, he waited for one of the Iranians to call inside from a radio. A moment later a garage door ground open and he drove the truck inside.
Andrei shut down the engine and jumped out, promptly lighting a fresh cigarette. Feodor was glaring at the Iranian, not giving an inch.
“Now what?” he demanded.
The Iranian said, “Open the truck.”
While Feodor and Andrei rolled up the rear of the truck and trundled the ramp down, another Iranian appeared. He was a little older, heavier, wearing a wrinkled dark suit, a white shirt, no tie. He smoked a cigarette as well. In a soft voice he said, “Let’s see what you have brought me.”
“Exactly what we told you we would,” Andrei said. He gestured toward the back of the truck. “Be my guest.”
The man nodded and strolled up the ramp. Andrei followed him. Everything in the back of the truck was in cardboard boxes labeled with the names of appliances—microwave ovens, toasters, blenders. Brand names like Indesit Co., Stinol, and Kesko Corp.
Feodor pulled a boxcutter out of his pocket and sliced open one of the boxes. Instead of toasters, it held cases containing grenades. The Iranian pulled an iPhone from his pocket and brought up a list on the screen. He proceeded to compare the items on his list with the items in the truck as Feodor opened the boxes. Once he verified a shipment, he had two men cart them out of the truck. Finally he was down to two final boxes. Inside one was Pavel’s bomb. Inside the other were metal canisters that looked like industrial thermoses.
The Iranian studied these for a moment, then nodded. With a flick of his finger, he sent a text message to the middleman. The Iranian smoked his cigarette and studied the metal canisters and Pavel’s special bomb. To Andrei he said, “And there are more?”
“I just deliver,” he said.
The Iranian nodded. His phone chirped. He read the message there, then fired up the phone’s browser and checked a bank account. With another nod he turned to Andrei. “You should receive a confirmation message shortly.”
Andrei smoked his cigarette down to the filter, tossed it to the pavement and ground it out with the heel of his boot. Feodor continued to glare at the Iranian nearest him, as if egging him on.
Finally, after three minutes of uneasy silence, Andrei’s phone buzzed. “Yeah?”
In his ear, Yakov Shos said, “We’re done. Come on home.”
“On our way.”
Andrei pocketed the phone. “Nice doing business with you. C’mon, Feodor. Let’s go get a drink.”
Erica Kirov leaned forward and lifted the ice pack off Derek’s wrist. Without another word she stood up and stepped behind him. “Let me see what’s going on here,” she said, gently peeking at his head beneath the washcloth.
A moment later she sat down, head cocked. “I assumed you missed me at the airport and hit a bar and got drunk. You certainly smell like vodka.”
“I’ll take a shower just as soon as you leave unless I fall asleep in the chair.”
“What happened? Do you need to see a doctor?”
“Unless I’ve been poisoned, I think I’ll heal.”
“Poisoned?”
“So how is Russia these days?” he asked, ignoring the question. “Does the FSB still bug hotel rooms where Americans stay? Particularly if they’ve had plenty of time to do so?”
“Yes. Your room is probably bugged. Your phone is most assuredly bugged. Your cell should be okay.”
“My phone’s not a problem.”
“And your wi-fi is undoubtedly bugged.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. It was the desk clerk with a tray holding
two roast beef sandwiches, a salad, and a can of Coke. Erica Kirov paid him. “It’s sort of cold outside,” she said.
“I think I can eat and walk at the same time. Maybe the lobby would be good.” They rode silently down in the elevator, Derek eating one of the sandwiches as they dropped to the main floor. In the lobby, Erica led him to two chairs. The desk clerk seemed interested, but didn’t approach them. “Okay,” she said. “What’s going on?”
He told her. She listened attentively. When he was done she said, “They went easy on you.”
“That’s part of the weirdness, yes. And for that matter, I thought the Russian cops went easy on me, too.”
“Well, that might have been explained by your passport. They might have decided to let you sleep it off and the bribes, well…” She shrugged. “But these other guys…”
“Right. How’d they know I was coming to Russia? They knew who I was. They really did just seem to want me to leave. It was a warning, but once I was in the cellar, they could have killed me, but didn’t.”
“Any idea who they are?”
Derek shrugged, wincing. “I’ve got a couple guesses. One is they’re FSB, some of Irina’s friends who heard I was coming and was going to poke around where I didn’t belong and it really was a friendly warning to mind my own business. In a friendly Russian FSB sort of way.”
Erica considered him for a moment. “This kind of trouble follows you around, doesn’t it? I’ve heard about you.”
“In your position as a foreign policy specialist for the State Department?”
She ignored that. “What’s your plan?”
“I was going to talk to someone at the embassy about Irina’s death, and anyone with the Russians who might.”
“I suspect you already spoke to someone in the Russian government about Irina’s death and they told you to go home. And emphasized the point by dumping your body in an alley.”
“Yeah, I thought of that. And I want to meet my … Irina’s family.”
“Your son, yes, I understand. Well, Secretary Mandalevo has a job for you to do. We’ve got several teams in the country doing weapons inspections. You’ve been temporarily attached to the State Department. I’m to assist you in any way possible. I’ve already booked a flight leaving tomorrow to Novosibirsk. It leaves in the afternoon, so you might have time to meet your son.”
Derek closed his eyes. “Ah, crap. Don’t tell me. He wants me to go to Vector.”
Erica nodded. “Yes.”
“Of all the places in the world I get to revisit, why Novosibirsk?”
“You really pick the garden spots, don’t you? Anyway, there are actually two components to your job. First, you’re to evaluate their biological weapons capabilities. We’ll supply you with copies of the most recent treaties in this regard. Second…” Erica hesitated. “You’re to investigate the death of Dr. James McGill.”
Derek sat up straight. “Jim’s dead?”
“Yes. You know him?”
Dr. James McGill, when Derek knew him, was a professor of chemistry at Emory University in Atlanta. His particular expertise was organophosphate compounds used in chemical weapons. He was also a contract inspector for the U.S. government for weapons inspections. “Our paths crossed occasionally. How did he die?”
“He apparently committed suicide. He was staying at a hotel in Novosibirsk. He wrote a note and threw himself out the fifteenth floor window.”
Derek thought about that for a moment. “Did he have a history of depression? I remember him being kind of quiet and maybe a little moody.”
She nodded. “He was on a mild antidepressant, Zoloft.”
“What was he doing here?”
“You’re replacing him, Doctor.”
At eight the next morning Derek was slammed out of bed by the room pho
ne. It was Erica Kirov, announcing her presence in the lobby. He mumbled about giving him fifteen or twenty minutes, then hung up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took in his physical state. Tired. Both jet lag and lack of sleep. His wrist was very sore. His head wasn’t bad except for a spot of localized tenderness. His sinuses were clear, but his throat was a little scratchy. He tried again to remember what the initial symptoms of radiation poisoning were, but decided there was no benefit to focusing on that. Besides, his rational self knew nobody had poisoned him, that was just his hypochondriac self shouting to be heard.
Twenty-five minutes later he arrived in the lobby, shaved, showered, and feeling halfway human. Erica Kirov, dressed in black again, but in slacks and blouse and boots, rose to meet him. “Hungry?”
“Yes. And coffee’s a necessity.”
“Let’s avoid the hotel restaurant. Are you bringing your backpack?”
“Let’s eat and come back. Some of my clothes are still drying.”
She nodded and led him out the door. Both of them paused briefly outside the entrance to the Golden Ring and scanned the pedestrians and cars. She saw him doing it and said, “See anything?”
“Nothing’s jumping out.”
“Me neither.”
He shrugged. They walked a block down the street and found a restaurant already busy, some Russians, but mostly foreign business people starting their day. After a short wait they were seated and ordered. Kirov ordered coffee and a hard roll. Derek opted for eggs and sausage and lots of coffee.
Kirov pushed a flash drive over to him. “Background information for Vector. You’ve been there before, I take it.”