by Mark Terry
“What does that mean?”
“I am a counterterrorism specialist. Like you. But not biological and chemical. Just counterterrorism.”
“Why did you drag me out to the woods yesterday?”
“To try to prevent you from doing what you’re doing right now. Getting in the midst of things and complicating matters.”
“If you had left me alone I would have probably been gone in a couple days.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Is Yassen alive?”
“No.” Konstantin started to turn around, but Derek nudged him with the gun.
“Keep facing forward, hands on the wheel.” The bitterly cold Moscow wind blew through the shattered window.
“I spoke to him just before the ambulance came,” Derek said.
“What did he say?”
“He said Irina might still be alive.”
Konstantin was silent. Derek nudged him again. “Is that true?”
The Russian agent shrugged. “I do not know.”
“Why did Yassen think she was alive?”
“We never found the body. Her’s or Grigori Sidorov’s. Three other members, we found their incinerated bodies in the warehouse.”
“Was she part of your team?”
“Yes.”
“You lost a lot of people in that raid.”
“Yes.”
“What were you looking for?”
Konstantin was silent for a long pause. Derek nudged him with the odd revolver again. “What were you looking for?”
“Stolen weapons.”
“Chemical weapons?”
“Some. And regular weapons. Of course, we are concerned about any guns and bombs that might be around, but when the Republic fractured many military weapons were lost. But that was a long time ago. About four months ago there were several significant losses from a special weapons facility in Novosibirsk. We were tracking them.”
“Who stole them?”
Konstantin shrugged. “Terrorists. Bad guys.”
“With inside help.”
“Probably, but we haven’t identified who.”
“Who are the terrorists? Chechens?”
Konstantin was slow to answer. “Perhaps. But there are other domestic terrorists we keep an eye on as well.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“We are particularly concerned about an organization that calls itself the Red Hand.”
“What do they want?”
“It’s hard to say. They are an angry hate group that often focuses on ethnic minorities—Chechens, Uzbeks, Ukrainians, whomever.”
“Not your typical Chechen separatists.”
“No, they are not.”
“Who leads them?”
Konstantin was silent a moment. “We do not know. They are fairly new to us and we don’t know much about them. But they appeared a few months ago with escalating terror attacks across the country.”
“What else did they steal?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. They stole a binary nerve gas. What else did they steal? Do you know exactly what they stole from your weapons facilities?”
“I have a list. It is top secret.”
Derek nudged him with a gun. “Let me ask you this very specifically, because although I’m not happy that you’ve got nerve gas bombs on the loose, this is Russia, which isn’t my biggest concern. Did they steal weaponized smallpox?”
Konstantin stiffened slightly. “We have no weaponized smallpox. Smallpox was eradicated in the 1970s. The only samples of smallpox are in Atlanta and in Vector.”
“Bullshit. You guys manufactured it. Yes or no. Did the Red Hand steal smallpox?”
The silence stretched out like Silly Putty. Finally Konstantin said, “You understand that I did not tell you this. I do not commit treason. That if you, perhaps, jumped to a conclusion, there are strategic reasons for allowing you to do so.”
Derek sighed. “Are you FSB or a politician? That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”
“Ten bomblets approximately the size of grapefruit containing an experimental infectious agent, appears to been stolen, among other armaments. Or perhaps I should say that is a rumor.”
Derek slipped the five-round flat clip, almost like an autoloader, out of the revolver and held them so Konstantin could see them. “I’m going to try and find those bomblets. You understand that? You understand that we probably want the same thing?”
“We very much want the same thing.”
“I’m supposed to go to Novosibirsk to inspect Vector. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Konstantin shrugged. “The weapons are already gone.”
“And at least one of them was here in Moscow.”
“Yes.”
Derek said, “Uh-huh. Interesting gun. What the hell is this?”
“You are a strange man, Stillwater.”
“Yeah, so they tell me. What’s the gun?”
“It is an OTs-38. It was made especially for the FSB. It is a silenced revolver. Almost no sound. Little or no flash. Built-in safety and laser site. Uses special ammunition, SP-4. Stechkin designed it. You know Stechkin?”
“I’ve heard of him. Famous Russian gun designer, I guess. Very cool. A spook gun for spooks.”
Konstantin did not respond to that. “What do we do now, Stillwater?”
“We try to remember that we’re on the same side.”
Derek slid out of the car and tossed the gun onto the passenger seat. “I hope you don’t reload and shoot me in the back.”
“Maybe later. But not today.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Derek headed back toward the hotel. Konstantin shouted after him. “Stillwater.”
Derek turned, eyebrow raised.
Konstantin said, “I will not underestimate you again.”
Derek texted Erica to tell her he would meet her at the embassy in two hours, retrieved his backpack and asked the concierge to call a cab. Fifteen minutes later he was in a cab driven by a Russian college student who was eager to try out his English. Derek handed him a slip of paper with an address on it. “Take me there.”
“Sure, no problem. Where are you from in America?” The kid had blond hair, big ears, and a cigarette in his mouth that filled the car with blue smoke.
“Baltimore.”
“What kind of car do you drive? I want a Cadillac someday.”
“I like the GTS reasonably well,” Derek said.
“That’s the one! Is that what you drive?”
“No,” Derek said, leaning back and watching the sights of Moscow go by. Mostly he drove an old Chevy pickup truck. Sometimes he drove his motorcycle, a Ducati Monster. Living in the Baltimore area, often he took the metro to avoid driving in traffic.
It had been a long time since he had last been to Moscow and the city had changed considerably. When he had been here before it still had a Cold War feel to it. Now it was another bustling capitalist city with crowded streets, bad air, high-end international brand stores, and constant construction. There were still some Lenin and Stalin faces here and there, but mostly it was high-end brand names like Gucci and Tiffany and red and white Coca-Cola signs. He also saw McDonald’s and KFC, although the most popular fast food chain seemed to be Teremok, whatever that was.
The driver kept up his chatter, more interested in talking than listening, which made it easy for Derek to say, “Uh-huh” and “really?” on a regular basis without actually taking part in the conversation.
Glancing over his shoulder, Derek tried to determine if they were being followed. It was impossible to tell. Konstantin might be back there somewhere, or anyone else. And he might be leading someone directly to his son and Irina’s family. The thought was disquieting and he reflected that Russia did a good job of making you paranoid, even post-Cold War.
The address he gave the driver was in a neighborhood called Frunzenskaya and Derek was surprised to find it was a lovely part of the ci
ty filled with parks and ponds and trees. It was situated on the banks of the Moscow River, not far from Gorky Park. The buildings were older but elegant. The park was desolate and gray, the walkways covered with frozen slush and ice, the trees bare of leaves.
His driver pulled up in front of a four-story building that looked like it might be eighty years old, but in good shape. Derek didn’t know enough about architecture to pin it down to style or era, although he associated its boxiness and conservatism with the Stalin era. He paid the driver, took his backpack and found his way to a door on the third floor. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt pressure behind his ears. Shaking his head, he grimaced at his nervousness.
A moment later an older woman answered the door. He supposed she was old enough to be a babushka, the Russian word that referred to the traditional Russian older women with their headscarves tied under their chin, but she didn’t wear a scarf. She was at least in her sixties, but her hair was dyed silver and worn in an elegant cut. She was a beautiful woman, he reflected, at any age.
“Zdravstvujte.”
“Ah. Do you speak English?”
“English?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. A little boy, two years old, appeared behind her. Derek blinked. If he had a photograph of himself or his brother David when they were two years old, he could have shown it to the woman and she would have understood the relationship immediately.
“Is this … is this Lev?”
The woman seemed surprised and a little concerned. She rested a hand protectively alongside the little boy’s head and nodded. “Da, Lev. Kak Vas zovut?”
Derek felt tension in his chest, nervousness he wasn’t accustomed to. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She placed a well-manicured hand against her chest and said, “Men’a zovut Raisa Belov.”
Belov. Irina’s letter had said Lev was being raised by her sister Yekaterina and her husband, Eduard Belov. That probably meant this woman was Eduard’s mother, Raisa Belov.
He tapped his own chest. “Derek Stillwater.”
She knew the name, because she put a hand up as if to ward him off and took a step backward, taking Lev backwards with her.
Derek raised his hands. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m … is Eduard or Yekaterina here?”
Raisa shook her head.
Frustrated, Derek knelt on the floor and pawed through his backpack. During his layover at Heathrow he had bought a stuffed Shrek, the green ogre from the movies. He pulled it out of the backpack and held it out to Lev.
The little boy’s blue eyes grew wide. One hand clutched at Raisa’s slacks and he looked up at her, a questioning look on his face.
She said something quick in Russian and the little boy’s face broke into a big grin. Cautiously, as if afraid, he held out his hand. Derek let him take the stuffed ogre from him. “For you,” he said. “Shrek.”
“Shek,” Lev said, excited. He hugged the doll.
Derek lingered on his knees for a moment, unable to process all the emotions that were ripping through him. After a moment he stood up.
“I’m supposed to go to Novosibirsk,” he said. “Today.”
Raisa cocked her head. “Novosibirsk?”
He nodded. “I’ll be back later. When I’m done. To talk to Yekaterina and Eduard.”
She clearly didn’t understand. He took a notepad from his backpack and wrote a note in English, not sure if either Yekaterina or Eduard spoke English, but confident they could find somebody who could translate it for them if they didn’t. He wrote that he was here on State Department business and would be out of Moscow for a couple days, but when he got back he would like to talk to them. He added his cell phone number on it and the phone number of Erica Kirov.
Handing it to Raisa, she studied it, then looked at him, confusion and questions on her face.
“It was nice to meet you, Raisa. Blagodarju vas. Dosvidanija.” Thank you. Goodbye.
“Dosvidanija,” she said. “Projatno poznakomit’sa.”
He hoped that meant something good like “pleased to meet you” not, “don’t ever come back.”
With a little wave at Lev, he turned and walked away.
9
Back out in the cold Derek looked across the river to Gorky Park. At one end was an amusement park, closed for the winter, the Ferris wheel frozen against the gray sky. The road was quiet. He supposed most people were at work. He knew that official cabs were hard to come by, but many Muscovites were willing to drive you where you wanted to go for a price.
A nearby bridge spanned the river, so he crossed it, looking down at the ice and the dark water moving slowly beneath him. Once on the Gorky Park side of the river, he started walking in the direction he wanted to head, backpack over one shoulder. Hearing a car behind him, he turned and held up his thumb in the universal symbol for hitchhiking.
A black BMW with darkly tinted windows cruised alongside him. The passenger window slid down.
A man with dark hair and a square jaw sat behind the wheel. A handgun came up.
Derek swung his backpack toward the open window and simultaneously threw himself sideways.
Spinning, slipping on the icy sidewalk, he lunged toward the fence separating Gorky Park from the road. Digging into the frozen slush, he flung himself over the fence, tumbling into the bushes on the other side. The gun spat behind him.
Rolling, he sprinted for the cover of a sycamore, dodging from tree to tree and over a small bridge that crossed a stream. Breath turned to steam. He scanned his surroundings, looking to see if the gunman had followed him into the park.
Squinting, he saw his footprints in the snow, knew he would be easy to track.
Almost simultaneously a gunshot barked and the bullet thudded into the birch he crouched behind, white bark exploding into the bitter air. Derek sprinted, dodging behind another tree. The snow crunched beneath his feet. The sidewalks were treacherous, covered with ice. He was safer staying off them. Peering over his shoulder, he saw the man walking steadily in his direction. Black boots, black jeans, black leather jacket. Skin-tight black gloves on his hands, a gun in his right hand. Bare head, black hair. Dark sunglasses. He saw Derek looking, raised the gun and fired.
Derek was on the move. He plunged into a thick stand of evergreens, zigzagging among the pines and spruce, trying to stay to icy spots and bare needles closest to the trees so his footprints wouldn’t be obvious.
Keeping low, he doubled back. He stopped, chest burning in the cold air, listening for the crunch of footsteps. Not far away he heard the sounds of people chatting and having fun. He didn’t know what that was all about. The park had seemed empty, but maybe there was a party or something going on.
He crept forward out of the edge of the trees. From the corner of his eye he saw a dark figure crouching next to a blue spruce, eyes to the ground. A gun was clenched in one fist.
Derek waited, judging the distance. If the man saw him, he was dead. Taking a slow deep breath he coiled himself, then rushed toward the assassin, leaping at him. The man heard him and spun, bringing the gun up, but Derek was on him, locking in on the gun hand. He got hold, twisted.
The assassin dropped the gun, but used his free hand to pound at Derek’s head.
Derek kicked at the gun. If he couldn’t get it, he didn’t want the assassin to get his hands on it again.
He snapped an elbow into the man’s throat, but the assassin was already on the move and caught the blow on his shoulder. They scuffled, struggling for control. Derek recognized that the assassin was strong and fast and well trained. It was a very even match.
Maybe not as even as he hoped. The assassin was very, very good.
The man tangled up Derek’s right arm, putting pressure on the elbow. Derek slammed a foot into the man’s knee. The pressure came off the elbow. Derek ducked under, broke free of his hold and before the assassin could regroup, went on the offensive, slamming double fists into
the man’s chest and hips, following up with a flurry of punches. The assassin took the blows through his leather jacket, grunting, then coming right back at him.
Derek took a knee to his ribs, gritted his teeth, and punched the man in the throat. The assassin staggered back, tripped, rolled, then surprised Derek by flinging himself away … toward the gun.
The assassin was between Derek and the gun.
Spinning, Derek turned and sprinted away, ducking into a thick grove of trees, dodging.
A bullet whined over his shoulder.
He burst out of the trees to find himself on the street on the banks of the Moscow River. It was covered with ice flows, the river a deeper gray than the gunmetal sky, the ice white and stark. The water was a dozen feet below him, penned in by a concrete embankment.
He raced upriver. The assassin exploded from the trees a dozen yards ahead of him.
Derek stopped, slipping on the ice.
The assassin took a careful stance, holding the gun in both hands.
Derek leapt over the embankment and into the icy water below.
Derek hit a large flow of ice, maybe eight feet by ten feet. It tilted precariously and he clung to its surface as it bobbed and jounced. Above him the assassin reached the rail and aimed. Leaping to his feet, Derek prepared to lunge to another ice flow. The flow tilted and he skidded off, arms flailing, dropping into the water just as the gun fired.
The shock of the icy water almost forced the air from his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest.
The water was murky, the surface a light patch above him dotted by darker patches—ice flows.
He swam up below an ice flow, searching for ice pockets on the underside of the flow. Finding one, he sucked in a small amount of air and dropped back down into the frigid water.
The river’s current was much stronger than he expected. He gripped the edge of an ice flow and hauled himself up to peer around. To his surprise, the assassin was standing by the side of the river looking down, but easily thirty or forty yards from where Derek had gone into the water. Derek ducked back down below the flow as the assassin turned, searching the river.