by Mark Terry
“We could go look at the warehouse where Irina Khournikova and the rest of her team were ambushed.”
“The FSB turned that place inside-out. Nothing there for us.”
She fired up the car and they headed back to the hotel. Once there, a conversation with the desk clerk indicated that the people in the room had checked out just moments before. Derek thought it was the first bit of happy coincidence he’d had since stepping off the plane in Moscow. He exchanged the room’s keycard for some cash and he and Erica visited the room on the fifteenth floor.
The bed was unmade and wet towels were scattered all over the bathroom floor, but otherwise it was unremarkable. Derek studied the window. It was possible to slide them open, which he did. Bitter cold air blasted into the room. He shut the window again, frowning.
He inspected the bathroom, lifted the toilet tank, ran his hands around the edges of the mirror, thinking. “Okay,” he said aloud. “What exactly are you looking for?”
From the other room Erica said, “What?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
The memory card for the camera, he thought. It was possible the cops got it, or if someone actually tossed McGill out the window, they had it. But he was wondering if McGill hid it in the hotel room. He had no reason to think he did, but if McGill was taking his inspection duties a little more seriously than just focusing on Vector—they wouldn’t allow him in there with a camera anyway—then he might have been poking around somewhere else.
He stepped out of the bathroom. Erica had the sheets off the bed and was going over the mattress, running her hands over its surface, studying it. “Looking for something in particular?” he asked.
“If there’s anything to find, it’s the camera’s memory card. He could have hid it inside the mattress. Why he would do that, I don’t know.”
“Justifiable paranoia.”
“Okay, fine. Justifiable paranoia. Because carrying it around in his pocket or keeping it in the camera made it too likely to get taken by somebody at Vector or a copy or something. Help me flip the mattress.”
He did and again, they found nothing. Normally Derek carried a utility tool around with him, a sort of Swiss Army Knife device, but he couldn’t travel commercial with it, so it was at home. He asked Erica if she had anything like that.
“No.”
“Bummer.” He fished in his pockets and came up with some coins, then went back into the bathroom. Using the coins, he loosened the screws on the ceiling fan vent in the ceiling while standing across the toilet and the sink, hoping he didn’t fall and bust his head open on the tub in the process. When he finally got it open he found dust and not much else. He replaced it, considered tearing apart the plumbing to the sink, but would need a wrench for that.
Back in the main room he found Erica ripping apart the in-room desk. He used his coins on the heating vents, but again found nothing. Frowning, he studied the room some more, then went to the closet near the entry door. There was a fire extinguisher, hangers, and two extra pillows. Derek took the fire extinguisher off the wall, turned it upside down, finding nothing. Using the coins he unscrewed the extinguisher bracket. When it came loose a blue memory card slightly smaller than a quarter fell onto the floor.
Derek smirked. “Well, Jim, I might have chosen the bathroom vent fan, but I suppose you’d get a lot of moisture there.”
Leaning over his shoulder, Erica said, “Damn. You were right.”
“Don’t sound so damned surprised. It happens more often than you’d think.”
14
Back in Derek’s room, he pulled out his laptop, inserted an adaptor and uploaded the memory chip. A quick glance indicated over 800 photographs. Derek sighed. “Okay, one at a time, I guess.”
The first dozen photographs were apparently of colleagues. Derek tapped the screen and said, “John Kaughman. I worked with him in Iraq. Must be the current team.”
There were a couple photographs of the outside of a compound of nondescript buildings surrounded by barbed-wire fences. “Vector,” Derek said.
Erica translated one of the signs in the photograph. “Vector State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology.”
“Yes,” Derek said. “Russia’s own little corner of hell.”
“For a guy with so much experience with biological and chemical weapons, you don’t think much of them.”
“That kind of goes together. It’s like being fascinated with car accidents and poisonous snakes.” He continued to click on photographs. The next hundred or so seemed to be tourist-y type photographs. St. Alexander Nevsky’s Cathedral. A domed building Erica said was the Novosibirsk Opera House. A statue of Lenin in a square with the opera house in the background. A bridge over the river. Photographs of some animals—a tiger, a polar bear, some monkeys—at the zoo. Photos of the hotel room.
“Hmmm,” Derek said, clicking on the next photograph. A photograph of a blond woman, her hand up, turning away from the camera. Her hair was cropped short, her hair dyed almost white. “I think we’ve found Captain Maximova. And she’s camera shy.”
They went through the rest of the photographs and it was toward the end that both Erica and Derek sat up. It was taken from a distance, but it showed Captain Zoya Maximova leaning in close to a tall man with a shaved head and black goatee. The man was lean, in black jeans and a black leather jacket. There were two photographs. One showed the two of them looking as if they were about to kiss each other. The second had the man turned fully toward the camera, eyes narrowed.
Erica said, “Look at the date.”
It was taken the same day McGill died.
“Recognize him?” Derek asked.
“No. But I can run him through our database. Email me a copy and I’ll do that.”
“I’ll have my guy in DC do it, too.” He sent off the photographs and shut down his computer.
“Now what?” Erica asked.
“Back to Moscow, although I want to show the photos of Comrade Ugly to the desk people and maybe Yuri and Jurek.”
He called Jurek, who told him to email it to him, he’d check the photo right away. Yuri told him to do the same thing. Waiting for a response, Derek packed his belongings and got ready to drive back to the airport. Erica had just knocked at his door when he received a text message from Jurek saying he didn’t recognize the man, but the woman was Captain Maximova.
At the front desk Derek showed a photograph of the man to the desk clerks. They studied it. “Yes,” one of them said, a thin young man with pale skin and black hair. “I’ve seen him before. I don’t know where or when, but he’s familiar.”
“Maybe he was a guest.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But maybe he was here once. Not too long ago. I just don’t remember. What did he do?”
“Good question.” He tossed a guy out a fifteen-story hotel room, Derek thought, but didn’t offer. Why muddy things?
They were just getting in the car to drive to the airport when Derek’s phone rang. It was Yuri. Again, negative. He’d never seen the man before. Derek thanked him.
Two hours later they were on a plane flying back to Moscow.
He studied the view outside the window. “I don’t know what we’ve found.”
“I don’t either, but there’s something there.”
“Do you think we should turn over that photograph to Konstantin Nikitinov?”
Erica frowned. “I’ll have to discuss it with my people. Typically when we cooperate with the FSB there’s some quid pro quo involved.”
“Mmmm.”
“What?”
“I’m not very good with the diplomacy thing.”
“You don’t exchange information with other experts in other countries?”
“I do, but I’m not sure I keep total tabs on it, and as far as I’m concerned it’s quid pro quo with individuals, not with countries or intelligence agencies.”
“Do they feel that way?”
He shrugged.
&nb
sp; Derek drifted off for a while, but woke when the flight attendant asked Erica if she wanted anything. Derek took a sandwich and a Coke, although Erica declined both. He said, “How long do you plan on staying in Russia?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been fascinated with it for a long time. My father’s side, obviously. I earned a degree in Russian history and I was already fluent in Russian because of my Dad and my grandparents.”
“Don’t miss home?”
Erica frowned. “Sometimes. I like to think that people are the same everywhere you go, but there’s truth that countries and cultures vary. Get out of the states for long enough and you start to realize how arrogant we are, although generally speaking we’re very hopeful and optimistic compared to many countries.”
“And often clueless and insular. But Americans do seem to have the idea they can accomplish anything. The American Dream. But I didn’t really grow up in the U.S., so sometimes it feels funny to me.”
“I know. Sometimes it’s easy to see why people love and hate America. What about you? Did you see your son?”
A smile splashed across his face. “Yeah. I wish the circumstances were different. My parents would have been thrilled to have grandchildren, but whether they’ll be too excited that I had one—” He made quote fingers in the air. “—‘out of wedlock’ and with a Russian woman may dampen the excitement somewhat. My dad never forgave me for entering the military anyway.”
Erica studied his face for a moment, making him uncomfortable. “What?” he said.
“People are complicated,” she said. “Maybe you’re underestimating them. How long have you been out of the military?”
“Long time.”
“They may be glad to have a grandson.”
“Maybe.” He concentrated on his sandwich, not interested in continuing that discussion. He napped for a while, waking as they descended into Moscow. Erica said, “That’s a gift you have, to nap like that.”
“Military training, actually, although swimming in the Moscow River in April helps. Of course, it makes you worry whether you’ll wake up again.”
The plane bumped to the ground and forty-five minutes later they were in Erica’s car headed back into Moscow proper. Years of travel with the military had accustomed Derek to traveling across multiple time zones, but this trip seemed to be throwing him. Maybe he was just getting older. They’d been batting what they knew back and forth to the point where it was starting to seem like twice-reheated leftovers.
Erica was saying, “I’m going to have to brief everybody and hopefully they’ve gotten some news about our photograph. I saw you checking your email. Have you heard from—”
Derek glanced over to see a black SUV with dark tinted windows pull alongside. Then it swerved in front of them. The window rolled down. Something flew out of the window.
Erica swore, jerking the steering wheel. Whatever had been thrown exploded. Behind them rang the blare of horns and the jagged sound of metal on metal.
Erica battled the wheel, trying to stay behind the black SUV. Another grenade was tossed backward as the driver simultaneously slammed on the brakes.
Derek caught Erica’s arm and yanked her sideways as bullets exploded the car windows. Their car slowed, skidded. Erica sat upright and twisted the wheel and slammed on the gas, ramming her car into the black SUV. She shouted, “Glove box.”
Derek yanked it open to find a Makarov. He snapped off the safety, leaned out and fired at the SUV.
Another object bounced from the SUV’s window.
Erica swerved, twisted the wheel hard, and aimed her car for an off-ramp, ricocheting off the bumper of a pickup truck. The grenade exploded behind them.
Off the highway, Erica, hands gripping the steering wheel, pulled the car into a parking lot. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Pretty much.” Some flying glass or metal had peppered his neck and he was bleeding, but it seemed minor. “You?”
Erica pressed a hand to her left side and winced. She took in a deep ragged breath. She held up her hand. It was scarlet with blood. “No,” she said, voice growing faint. “I don’t think I am.” Slowly she sagged against the steering wheel.
Two hours later, Derek was ushered into the U.S. Embassy office of Jim Hall, the head of embassy security. Jim Hall’s office overlooked the House of the Russian Federation Government, otherwise dubbed the White House. Hall had donned reading glasses and was typing on a computer.
“Have a seat.”
Derek sat. Hall’s office seemed dominated by plasma screens, which were all currently blank except one playing CNN with the sound off. Quiet jazz played softly from the computer speakers. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases were jammed with books, and the obligatory photographs of the President and Secretary Mandalevo hung on the wall. There was also a safe and numerous filing cabinets with locks on them. The carpeting was dark blue and thick, the furniture leather and comfortable. Derek interpreted it to mean that Hall had some juice.
After Erica collapsed, Derek had immediately called the embassy for help. A special team had appeared within fifteen minutes and hustled Erica away. One group got rid of Erica’s car and Derek rode with another man he was fairly certain was CIA back to the embassy, where he’d been debriefed, which felt an awful lot like a hostile interrogation minus the buckets of water.
Hall ran a hand over his shaved scalp. “You familiar with the word ‘catalyst,’ Stillwater?”
“Might have run across it somewhere while I was getting my PhD in biochemistry,” he said.
Hall grunted, still looking impeccable in his tailored suit, his dark skin gleaming. But he otherwise looked annoyed. “You show up and everything goes to hell. Makes me wonder if you’re the problem.”
Derek met his gaze, but ignored the jibe. “How is Erica?”
“She’ll be fine, although she might have a permanent limp. Apparently one of the grenades went off close enough to the car to slam slivers of metal and plastic into her left leg and side. She’s got a lot of stitches and her left knee is a mess, but the docs think she’ll be fine.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“Well, that’s going to have to wait for a while, because we’re not going to disclose her location while we sort things out.”
“I don’t think whoever did this was after her.”
“Neither do I, but nonetheless, I’d prefer we kept her in a safe place. As for you, I’d prefer you went back home, but the ambassador has talked to Secretary Mandalevo and he wants us to support you as much as we can.”
“Did you guys run the photographs Erica sent you?”
“Yes. No ID on either of them, although we’ll take your word on the identity of the woman. We’ll keep looking and maybe we can get the Russians to cooperate, but they’re a little preoccupied with all these attacks in Moscow and St. Pete’s.”
“I’ve got my guy back in DC working on it, but I doubt he’ll come up with anything. I’ve got a couple other ideas.”
Hall studied him. “Nice hat.” Derek still wore the ushanka.
“Keeps my head warm.”
“A little out of fashion.” Hall shrugged. “You need anything from me?”
“When’s the FBI team coming in?”
“They’re on their way. FSB is not happy, but we’re not giving them much choice. They told us that if they needed help with an investigation they’d ask for it. We told them since this was an attack on the U.S. Embassy, i.e. U.S. soil, we’re investigating. I take it you’re going to keep digging at this Red Hand. In that respect, I appreciate your assistance, actually. Besides, if you screw up, we can blame everything on Homeland Security.”
“Glad I can be of help,” Derek said dryly. “You have any suggestions where I should start?”
Hall nodded. “Might talk to a guy named Viktor Solomov. He’s sort of a, uh, lowlife, but he knows a lot about who’s doing what in Moscow. You can usually find him in a bar called, of all things, The Real McCoy. It’s on Kudrinkskaya Ploshchad. Sor
t of an American place, in a Russian sort of way. If he’s not there, he’ll be in the area.”
Derek stored the data away. “Okay, anything else?”
Hall slid a handgun in a holster across the desk to him along with two full magazines. “Beretta Px4 Storm. Seventeen .40 caliber rounds in each mag. If you can’t fight your way out of a situation with that many rounds you’re totally screwed, but from what I heard you might’ve benefited from it today. Watch your back, Stillwater, and keep me updated.”
Derek left the embassy, leaning into a bitter wind and driving sleet. At least the ushanka kept his head warm, but he needed a pair of gloves. Raisa had loaned him a pair, but he needed something warm and skin-tight so he could fire a gun wearing them if he needed to. He was understandably concerned about flagging down a non-official cab and his Russian was such that he wasn’t too excited about trying to use the subway system. He started walking, and after five minutes a cab drove by. He whistled and flagged it down, climbing into the backseat.
He told the driver he needed to buy some gloves. His driver, who seemed to be about a thousand years old and looked Mongolian, didn’t speak much English, but he muttered, “goom,” and headed off toward Red Square. A couple minutes later he dropped Derek off in front of what had to be the world’s most ornate mall, GUM, Moscow’s State Department Store. It took up most of one side of Red Square and looked a lot like a medieval Russian castle. Derek thought it might actually be a medieval
Russian castle.
Inside, Derek discovered it was indeed a mall and had plenty of shops to choose from, many of them brand names like Armani, Guess, Swatch, Omega, Dior and Samsonite, among many others. There were three levels and the ceiling was a curved glass cylinder. He wandered around until he found a store that sold gloves and bought a pair of fur-lined leather gloves that would keep his hands warm, but allow him to pull a trigger if necessary.
He wandered for a while, playing tourist, then slid into a food court called the Café Festivalnoe, which had a dozen different pavilions that each offered different ethnic cuisines such as Asian, Japanese, Russian, and Italian. He chose Italian and found some fettuccini, a salad and garlic bread. Sitting down to eat in a booth with bright orange upholstery, it was only a few moments before a man in a black wool jacket sat across from him.