The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  “Under your leadership,” Grechko said.

  “Of course. The politicians and the Duma do not have strength of will. Only a warrior can do what I plan.”

  “The Red Hand. You and your friend Yakov Shos.”

  “Yes,” General Zukhov nodded. “The Red Hand will show Russians that the politicians cannot keep them safe, that only a strong fist, a leader like myself, can keep them safe.”

  Slowly, Grechko said, “The Red Hand has stepped up its attacks. They plan to make the government look ineffectual to the point that the military will have to step in to bring order.”

  Leaning forward, General Zukhov said, “You understand.”

  I understand you are insane, Grechko thought. But what do I care? I do what I am hired to do.

  “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “Set off a bomb inside Lubyanka. Destroy the FSB.”

  Grechko laughed. “Why not inside the Kremlin? Why Lubyanka?”

  “Because the people and the government must put me in charge legitimately.”

  Whatever, thought Grechko. Certainly the distinction would not matter in the courts or to the current leadership.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Early afternoon, when the offices are full.”

  Grechko laughed. “Impossible. There is way too much preparation for that sort of a job. Besides, you don’t need me. You just need someone stupid enough inside Lubyanka. You should have had Titov do it before I killed him.”

  “We intended for Irina Khournikova to do it, but she became incapacitated due to one of my people’s overreaction. Then, due to one of my insubordinate’s incompetence, she escaped.”

  “I do not know who Irina Khournikova is.”

  “It is unimportant that you do know. Will you do it?”

  “Five million euros.”

  “I think not.”

  “The risks are too high. You have to make it worth my while, General. Where in the world could I go if the FSB discovered what I had done?”

  “Three.”

  “Four and I won’t charge you for taking out Stillwater.”

  “It is a deal, then.”

  “How can you help me kill Stillwater?”

  “We have his son. We’re taking you to him now.”

  Derek and Konstantin found long sheets of plastic wrap in the basement of the bar and rolled Gleb’s corpse into it. They carried it to Konstantin’s car and dumped it in the trunk. Derek thought this was an all-time low for him, but didn’t dwell on it. Konstantin was protecting his friend.

  He mopped up the concrete floor with bleach, knowing it would destroy the DNA, but a good forensic investigation would turn up bloodstains. Hopefully nothing would lead anyone down there.

  For a moment, alone in the basement with the stench of death and bleach around him, he felt an overpowering wave of despair. He leaned against a crate and closed his eyes. His stomach churned. A Bible versus he had been forced to memorize by his father popped into his head: Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more. “Easy for him to say,” he muttered.

  Konstantin appeared and squeezed his shoulder. “We’re doing this for Lev. We’ll get him back.”

  With a sigh, Derek said, “There’s an expression in English—way off the reservation. We are way off the reservation.”

  “I do not understand this expression.”

  “It means when you do things unauthorized. It goes back to Native Americans who were put on reservations and left without permission, I guess. I’ve got some Native American blood in me, so maybe I come by it naturally.”

  Konstantin flexed his fingers, and Derek wondered if he was reliving plunging the knife into Gleb’s throat. In a sober voice he said, “We will undoubtedly pay for our sins somewhere along the line, Derek. But first, we get Lev back safe. Are you ready? We have a body to dump.”

  “Swell.”

  He followed Konstantin into the car. It was getting close to sunrise. It had been a long and exhausting night. Konstantin drove to an industrial section alongside the Moscow River. “There are no security cameras in this area and very light traffic.”

  “If you say so.” Derek fitted the ushanka tight on his head and helped Konstantin drag Gleb’s body from the trunk and throw it into the icy waters of the river. “A forensic team would have a field day with your car.”

  Konstantin shrugged. “If we do not get Lev back safe, I don’t much care what happens to me. But now we have a problem. Gleb told me a lot. Much more than I expected about the Red Hand.”

  They drove away and Konstantin told Derek about how the Red Hand was a puppet organization for General Zukhov. “This is a very big problem.”

  Was it? For them? Was it any bigger than going after the mafiya or any terrorist group? Derek wasn’t so sure. As far as he was concerned, they just needed a location. He said, “What’s next?”

  Konstantin nodded. “It might be worthwhile going straight to the top.”

  “Zukhov?”

  “Yes. But that will require some research and the clock is ticking.”

  “What do you know about Zukhov?”

  Konstantin shrugged. “Not much more than the official biography.”

  “Does he have a wife or children?”

  “I think so. You…”

  “We can do a little hostage swap, Konstantin. It’s time to quit chasing these guys and go on the offensive. How do we find out more about Zukhov?”

  “We visit my brother.”

  Derek raised an eyebrow. Konstantin said, “He is in the Air Force.”

  Mikhail Grechko asked for details about the type of bomb. Essentially it was Semtex in a briefcase. He appreciated that it was relatively small and portable.

  Grechko said, “And it will be on a timer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I will set the timer.”

  Shos said, “We have people who will take care of that.”

  “You will show me how to set the timer,” Grechko said.

  “There is no need for that.”

  “You will show me how to set the timer and I will set the timer. You will show me how to deactivate the timer. On the surface this sounds like a simple operation, but it’s not. You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest and Lubyanka security will be tightened. I require flexibility.”

  And I don’t trust that you won’t have it going off while I’m still carrying it, he thought.

  “Fine,” Shos said. “We will supply a uniform and credentials.”

  “Why me? If you have the uniform and the credentials, or access to them, anybody can do this? Why pay me four million U.S. to do this job?”

  “We trust you,” Zukhov said.

  “Fine. You have my account number. I want half upfront.”

  “You don’t trust me to pay up?”

  “Getting out of Russia afterwards might be tricky. It motivates me to be resourceful to know there’s money waiting.” And no, I don’t trust you.

  Within minutes they drove into an abandoned compound. To Grechko’s eyes it was a former school, or perhaps a military academy, but it appeared to be mostly abandoned. A rusty chain-link fence surrounded the facility, razor wire coiling along the top.

  Grechko studied the facility in the dark, the sun just starting to rise in the east. There were a few lights around the property, but otherwise it appeared abandoned.

  “Your dacha?” he asked, voice dripping sarcasm.

  “The Red Hand,” said Zhukov. “And where I will introduce you to Derek Stillwater’s son.”

  Konstantin’s brother lived with his wife and family in an area of northwest Moscow called Pyatnitskoe in what in the U.S. would be called a townhouse. It was a two-story redbrick structure, one of three units joined together. There was a little lawn covered with slush, and a backyard.

  They parked and were met at the door by Colonel Misha Nikitinov. The resemblance between Konstantin and his brother was unmistakable, although Misha was probably a little bit older, a little thi
nner, and he had a head of salt-and-pepper hair cut short. He was clean-shaven. They embraced and spoke briefly in Russian. He led them into the house. A woman with curly red hair and a round face stood wrapped in a thick maroon robe. She came forward and kissed and hugged Konstantin as well.

  He introduced them to Derek. The look on their faces was thunderstruck, although Misha seemed to recover quickly. Misha spoke to his wife for a moment, then led them upstairs to a bedroom he apparently used as an office. The office clearly played double-duty as a playroom for younger children, based on the scatter of toys on the floor and the gaming console attached to the TV.

  Misha closed the door behind them and gestured to the chairs and sofa. He was dressed in a blue military uniform. Derek noted a blue insignia on the shoulders with three stars in a triangle and two lighter blue stripes. Derek sat in the chair as Konstantin filled his brother in on their dilemma, leaving out some of the details. They spoke in English and Misha’s English was at least as good as his brother’s.

  Finally Misha cocked his head and looked at Derek. “You have a fine son, Doctor.”

  “We want to get him back safe.”

  “I’ll help you.” To Konstantin, “Are you sure you can’t just work through the FSB?”

  Konstantin shook his head. “I don’t know who to trust.”

  Misha sighed. “I know Zhukov, both personally and professionally. Not well, but I know him. And of him. He has a son. Some sort of artist, or would-be artist.”

  “Can you find him?”

  Misha shot Konstantin a look. They spoke briefly in Russian. Konstantin’s lips pressed together in a hard white line and he shook his head.

  “What?” Derek asked.

  Misha studied his brother. After a moment he said, “I can find out the son’s name. But Konstantin will probably have to use the FSB to locate him.”

  “Better hurry,” Derek said. “If he’s an artist, chances are he’s in bed. I’d like to catch him there before he wakes up and goes about his day.”

  Misha turned to a computer and booted it up. Derek pulled out his gun. “And we need ammunition.”

  “That will be no problem,” Misha said.

  Grechko followed Zhukov into the facility, which on closer inspection he thought must have once been a military school, since abandoned. As they approached the entrance in the dim light, he saw movement and identified two guards in black. He imagined there were more.

  At the front door Grechko noted the security camera tucked away. The door buzzed and Zhukov pulled it open, leading him into the facility. The door opened into a carpeted alcove that smelled of mold and disinfectant. Two armed men in camo snapped to attention and saluted.

  “At ease,” Zhukov said, and continued to lead Grechko. A woman appeared from a doorway further down. She was rail thin with very short blond hair. She wore camo pants, boots, and a tight white T-shirt. She snapped to attention, but Zhukov waved her off.

  “He is here to see the boy and the woman.”

  Something twitched around the woman’s eyes. “Why?” she asked.

  Grechko thought that was interesting. She was concerned for the boy. Zhukov said, “That is not your responsibility.”

  “They are both asleep.”

  Zhukov gestured for Grechko to follow her. Zhukov walked toward the doorway the woman had appeared from. The woman led him further into the building. He noted a number of video cameras. One door was open and through it he saw what must be an armory, racks filled with rifles.

  The woman led him down a hallway and stopped at a locked door. With a set of keys she opened it. The hallway light shafted into the room. Grechko saw a cot. Two figures slept on it. One was the little boy. The grandmother sat up. “What? What do you want?”

  Grechko said, “May I turn on the light? Will it wake up the boy?”

  The grandmother adjusted the blanket over the little boy. “What do you want?”

  Grechko turned on the light and turned to his guide. “I will knock when I need you.”

  He stepped in and the door shut behind him. The woman, Raisa, looked tired and angry. She stood up and glared at him and he was struck by the resemblance she had to his own mother—the expression, nothing else. His mother had been a traditional Russian woman, a peasant, a babushka. This woman was of the New Russia, a Muscovite with her dyed and styled hair and her fashionable clothing. But the look on her face was the same.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “You are the boy’s grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Irina Khournikova’s mother?”

  She shook her head. “Irina’s sister’s husband’s mother. Raisa Belov. Your thugs murdered my son and my daughter-in-law. What do you want with us?”

  Grechko studied the little boy, who was sound asleep despite the light and the conversation in the room. He thought of his own father, the “hero” of Russia, and the reality he had discovered years later. This boy’s father was a real hero, even Zhukov had called him the “hero of the G8.” Did having a father like that motivate you or force you to an eternity in his shadow? “The boy and you and your son and daughter-in-law are pawns in a very strange chess game.”

  “A game?”

  He shrugged. “The people who brought you here, they want something. I don’t necessarily know what they want. But they hire me for certain jobs. One was to kill the boy’s father. Now they want me to use him to lure the man in.”

  “You are evil!”

  Grechko grinned. “’Life is neither a good nor an evil; it is a field for good and evil.’”

  Raisa shook her head. “Is that a quote? Something famous? Something you use to justify your actions?”

  “It was a quote by Seneca,” Grechko said. “But it is not how I justify my actions, Ms. Belov. It is how the world works. Pick up the boy and let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see his father.”

  24

  Zukhov’s son’s name was Dmitri and he lived in a flat near Moscow State University. As far as they could determine, he lived alone.

  Misha had come with them after changing out of his uniform. He drove some sort of Russian version of a Hummer, although Derek didn’t catch the name. Derek thought Misha had said it was a Dartz. Misha added a few handguns and an AK47 to the mix, along with a handful of flash grenades. Derek didn’t ask why the man kept flash grenades around the house. He really didn’t want to know.

  From a strategic point of view, Derek realized they were running into a problem—daybreak. Around the university students would be starting class; everywhere around the city people would be crowding the streets, heading for work, to school, off on errands. Three armed men strolling into a loft near the university and kidnapping a student wasn’t going to be the easiest task. He figured they were already pushing their luck.

  The flat was part of a row of three-story structures. Konstantin’s information he’d pulled off the FSB database indicated Dmitri Zukhov lived on the third floor.

  Derek said, “Handguns, I guess. Anybody up to a recon?”

  Misha and Konstantin exchanged a look. Konstantin said, “I think this is going to be a one-shot thing, Derek. We go in, we snatch-and-grab, we get out.”

  “And then where?” He didn’t think Konstantin’s friend’s bar would be a good idea. Konstantin said, “The same place we took you to question you.”

  Thinking it through, Derek said, “Okay. Let’s go then.” He climbed out of Konstantin’s car and the three of them headed for the flat. The sun was just starting to rise.

  In through the main door, up two flights of steel stairs. For some reason the building smelled yeasty, like baking bread or beer. Derek wondered if the lofts had once been a bakery or brewery. There was a rear entrance to the building, but apparently each flat had a single entrance. They encountered no one.

  Finding Dmitri’s flat, Konstantin studied the lock on the door and shrugged. “Dead bolt. Several locks.”

  De
rek shook his head and lunged at the door, leg pistoning out. The doorframe cracked, but the door didn’t open. “Again,” he said. Misha joined him on the count of three and the door exploded inward.

  It was for the most part an open floor plan—a huge flat screen TV dominated a grouping of black leather furniture. There was a kitchen at the far end, a sleeping area in a loft area above. One entire end of the space was dominated by a dozen large canvases with paintings in various stages of completion—surrealistic swirls of bloody reds and midnight blacks, barely distinguishable images appearing as if by magic out of the wash of color.

  A dark-haired figure appeared at the ladder leading to the loft area, swearing in Russian. He disappeared from sight. A moment later he appeared with a shotgun and fired down at them. They scattered, Derek plunging beneath the loft. He listened to Konstantin shouting back.

  Suddenly a chunk of the loft above him exploded downward. The prick had fired down at his feet, hoping to hit Derek.

  “Oh for God sakes,” Derek said. He took out a flash grenade, leapt out from beneath the loft, tossed it above him, then slid back for cover, eyes closed, hands stuffed against his ears, mouth open to decrease the effect on his ears and equilibrium.

  An astonishingly loud explosion tore through the confines of the loft, followed by yells. Konstantin rushed up the ladder, followed by Misha. Derek decided to wait for them to bring the kid down. Maybe his ears would stop ringing. In the meantime he looked around the apartment and found a laptop computer and an iPhone. Excellent.

  Pocketing the phone, he took a deep breath, considering his next move.

  Before he could decide, Konstantin and Misha led Dmitri Zukhov down the ladder. He still seemed dazed and he was shouting what were probably threats at the two men. Once he was off the ladder Konstantin used plasti-ties to strap his wrists behind his back. It took less than a minute to hustle Dmitri Zukhov out of the loft and into their vehicle. Seconds later they were on their way out of Moscow.

  Grechko had Raisa carry Lev, who did not wake up while she pulled on his coat. Grechko had never had kids, never been married, never kept a lover for any length of time. He supposed it was possible there was a child out there from one of the lovers, but he did not know of any. It was an aspect of life he had missed out on, but he felt no urge to be a father. Perhaps it was the nature of his disillusionment over his own father, from Hero of the Empire to drunken accident victim.