by Mark Terry
The woman from the Red Hand watched them prepare the child and said, “What do you intend to do with them?”
“None of your business.”
“The General wishes to know.”
“The General has other plans. Do you have a vehicle for me or will we be in the limousine?”
The woman—Zoya—frowned. “I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
Idiots, thought Grechko. To Raisa, “Come.”
Carrying a sleeping Lev, he walked alongside her down the hallway. At the door to the building he paused. He said, “What do you suggest I do, Mrs. Belov?”
“About what?”
“About stupid clients and children and grandmothers.”
Raisa’s expression was confused. Shaking his head, Grechko said, “Never mind.”
A few minutes later a black Lada sedan pulled up and Zoya climbed out. “Perhaps you can return it.”
Grechko ignored her and helped put Lev in the back seat. He watched the child sleep, a thumb tucked into his mouth. Only children of a certain age could sleep that soundly, thought Grechko. He gestured for Raisa to climb in next to the boy. He looked at Zoya. “I need something to cover her eyes. Hurry.”
The woman disappeared back into the building. Grechko met Raisa’s gaze. “Did they harm you or the boy?”
She shook her head. “They murdered my son and my daughter-in-law.”
“But they did not hurt you. Hit you? Cut you? Anything like that? You or the boy?”
“No. Why do you care?”
Why did he? He shrugged. “I will try to make sure you and the boy live. But I cannot guarantee it. But I’ve been hired to kill the father, Stillwater. I don’t know why. That doesn’t matter in most cases. I’m a professional. The money is there, I do the job. But I don’t like the way they are using the boy.” He hesitated. “But I will do so, too, to accomplish my mission. Do you understand?”
Raisa nodded, the skin around her eyes tight with fear. Zoya appeared a moment later with a burlap bag. With apologies, Grechko pulled it over Raisa’s head. “Do not try to peek out and see where we are or where we come from until I say it’s safe. This knowledge would make you a liability. Do what I say and you will be safe. Understand?”
Raisa nodded her head. Grechko gently patted her on the shoulder and closed the door. He shot a look of contempt at Zoya, climbed behind the wheel and left the headquarters of the Red Head, intent on swapping a living, breathing Lev and his grandmother for a very dead Derek Stillwater.
Dmitri Zukhov would not shut up. They drove in two separate vehicles, Misha ahead of them in the Dartz, Konstantin and Derek following with Dmitri. Konstantin drove and Derek sat in the rear of the car with Dmitri. Dmitri’s mouth never stopped moving, and for most of it he talked and wheedled and whined in Russian until it became obvious Konstantin was ignoring him. He looked at Derek and tried in Russian.
Rolling his eyes, Derek said, “I don’t speak Russian.”
“American?” Dmitri said in English.
“Da,” Derek said.
“You’re—”
“Derek Stillwater.”
Dmitri paled.
“So, you recognize the name.”
“What do you want?”
“You got yourself in the middle of some shit, Dmitri.”
“You know who my father is? When he finds out about this—”
“That’s the point, asshole,” Derek said. “He is going to find out. We’re trading you.”
“He’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of you…. Who are you trading me for?”
From the front seat Konstantin said, “Shut up.”
“You’re Russian. I know you are. You’re—”
Derek backhanded Dmitri, who flinched, but since his hands were cuffed behind him, couldn’t do a damned thing. “You’re a bargaining chip, Dmitri. Keep your mouth shut, do what we tell you to do and—”
“My father will fucking kill you! Do you understand me?”
Derek sighed. Ignoring Dmitri, he glanced out the window. They had driven out of Moscow proper. Woods and farmland spun by. Dmitri had a point. Even if they made the switch, they would be subject to General Zukhov’s reach unless they brought him down or left the country. It was possible he and Lev could take refuge at the U.S. Embassy until the State Department worked its magic, but … he was getting ahead of himself. Get Lev. Deal with the repercussions later.
Derek pulled out Dmitri’s confiscated iPhone and flicked the switch to access the menu. Somewhat glumly he realized all the icons and text were in Cyrillic. He found the Phone Contacts list, but they were incomprehensible to him. He pocketed the phone. Forty-five minutes later they pulled down the lane that led to the rural dacha where he had first met Konstantin.
Misha pulled in alongside them and together they marched Dmitri into the house. Now that he wasn’t walking with a bag over his head, Derek saw that the dacha sat on a lake, covered with ice. Surrounding the lake was forest, much of it white birch. Quite beautiful in a stark, Russian way.
Inside the living room, Misha pushed Dmitri down into a straight-backed chair in front of the cold fireplace. They untied his hands. Then Konstantin retrieved lengths of rope from the kitchen and retied Dmitri’s legs and arms to the chair.
Handing the iPhone to Misha, Derek said, “I can’t read it, but there’s a lot of contact information there. I imagine his father’s number is in there.”
Misha took the phone and retreated into the kitchen. Dmitri said, “What are you doing to do? Let me loose? Let me loose and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
“Shut up,” Derek and Konstantin said simultaneously in two different languages. They turned and followed Misha into the kitchen, closing the wooden door behind them. Dmitri yelled and swore at them in English and Russian. Even with the door closed, his fear and anger were obvious.
The kitchen was small, the dominant feature a butcher-block island that looked very old and very well used, the oak surface scarred with cut marks and gouges and stains from years of use.
“Any luck?” Derek asked.
“Yes. General Zukhov’s cell phone, office phone and home phone are all in here.”
Derek turned and walked back into the living room. Misha and Konstantin followed. Standing in front of Dmitri, Derek said, “Where are they keeping Lev?”
Eyes hooded, Dmitri smirked. “Screw you, American. You’re a walking dead man.”
Derek put his foot against Dmitri’s chest and thrust out. The kid and the chair tipped backwards and slammed to the hard floor. Dmitri’s head slammed against the floor. He cursed and squirmed.
“We’re all walking dead men, Dmitri,” Derek said. “But one of us is going to die a lot sooner than the rest of us if you don’t start answering questions and cooperating.”
He turned and walked back into the kitchen. Konstantin and Misha followed. Misha said, “Giving him time to think?”
“I don’t really give a damn about Dmitri unless he’s useful in getting Lev back safe. Is he?”
Konstantin shrugged. To Misha he spoke in Russian. They spoke back and forth for a minute, then Konstantin said, “We’re discussing the best place to make an exchange of this sort. Then we’ll call Zukhov. My suggestion is someplace very public.”
Derek considered that. Slowly he said, “I don’t know if that will work, actually. Dmitri’s going to be a pain in the ass. I think we might be better off with something semi-public that allows a lot of escape routes. A train station or somewhere near an expressway exchange. Maybe a building with a lot of floors and exits, so we could set up vehicles in a couple different areas.”
Frowning at each other, Konstantin said, “A train station.”
Misha raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Derek said.
“Komsomolskaya Square,” Misha said.
“Better known as Three Stations,” Konstantin said. “It’s one of the busiest spots in Moscow, but it has three train terminals all at one location: Leningradsky, Yaros
lavsky and Kazansky.”
“Three Stations it is,” Derek said. “Who’s making the call?”
It was a private meeting in the Kremlin. Colonel General Zukhov settled into his chair around the long polished mahogany table. Also at the table was President Eltsin and his chief of staff Sergei Barsukov, Prime Minister Kirill Arkhipov and his chief of staff, the Minister of Defense Yuri Sokol, and Tovok Tur, Director of the FSB. Along the outside walls of the room were a handful of subordinates whose job it was to take notes and keep their mouths shut.
President Eltsin called the meeting to order and looked pointedly at Tovok Tur. “Director Tur, what is the status into the investigations of the bombings?”
Tur was a bulky man who wore expensive suits tailored to minimize his weight. Deep-set eyes made him seem like a bear, gray hair swept off a high forehead, fleshy lips, a cleft jaw that always seemed tense. “They are ongoing, Mr. President. Evidence points to their being directed by a domestic group calling itself the Red Hand.”
Eltsin waved a hand in dismissal. “In other words, nothing new?”
“It has been only twelve hours. We are putting all our resources into it, but the Red Hand is a relatively new organization on our radar and we don’t have a lot of information about them.”
Zukhov said, “The FSB isn’t doing enough. The people are growing restless. They want action.”
“Colonel General Zukhov wishes to declare martial law,” Defense Minister Sokol said. Sokol had a round shaved head and wore round wire-rimmed glasses. He was not a man who appeared dangerous, but Zukhov knew he was very dangerous. There was very little about the Russian military that Sokol didn’t have his fingers in.
“What I am suggesting,” Zukhov said, “is that if the FSB cannot make headway on the investigation or control or prevent the attacks, the military can do a better job.”
“Your idea of a better job,” Tur snapped, “would be to have tanks on the streets and your soldiers on every corner.”
“If it would keep the peace and make Russia safe,” Zukhov replied calmly.
“I do not think,” Sokol said, “that will be necessary.”
“I think I should mobilize to be ready.”
Sokol supplied a mirthless smile. “I imagine you do.”
Eltsin said, “What of the protests? There is an enormous crowd in the Square.”
FSB Director Tur said, “It is a peaceful demonstration, for the most part. Although the FSB is involved in crowd control, the bulk of policing is being handled by local police and militia. I don’t think it is a problem.”
“That is not my observation,” Zukhov replied. “They are very out of hand. There have been numerous arrests and the mob is growing. It’s turning into a riot.”
Prime Minister Kirill Arkhipov spoke for the first time. He was thin and unimpressive looking, but Zukhov knew he was a master of political maneuvering. On the surface Arkhipov seemed to be supportive of Zukhov, but Zukhov was not confident in that support. His impression was Arkhipov would align himself with whoever would oppose Eltsin and whoever would help Arkhipov achieve his own ends, whatever they were. Arkhipov’s hands were long and thin. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his finger before him, resting against his narrow chin.
Arkhipov said, “Minister Sokol, what do you think of declaring martial law?”
Eltsin said, “You can’t be serious!”
“Mr. President, I’m just trying to see where everybody stands. Minister Sokol, do you think it would be a viable option?”
“There is always push-back, Prime Minister. But it’s possible, if the FSB cannot keep the peace, and the public grows more restive—”
“I assure you,” FSB Chairman Tur snapped, “that we are keeping the peace and there is no reason to inflame the public with a stronger military presence. Besides, imagine for a second the international response.”
“Since when has the FSB cared about the international media?” Zukhov asked. “Are you running for office?”
“I am merely being aware of political repercussions to international law, Val,” Tur said. “You want to use a cudgel when a scalpel would be a better choice.”
“My goal is to keep the peace and to ensure the safety of the Russian people,” Zukhov replied.
Eltsin said, “I want a full update on my desk in three hours from all over you. Chairman Tur, I expect arrests soon.”
“Any real leads?” Arkhipov asked mildly.
Zukhov gloated silently. There had not been.
“We are pursuing leads, Mr. President, but—”
“You’re getting nowhere,” Zukhov snapped. “No real leads. No arrests. No names. Nothing. You’ve been taken totally surprise by this Red Hand. Do you even know what they want?”
“They want to restore Russian to his previous glory, as they remember it from the era of the Union.”
Zukhov was surprised they knew even that much. “And who leads this mysterious Red Hand?”
“We have evidence that at least one of the top people was an army commander out of Novosibirsk,” Tur said, meeting Zukhov’s gaze. “Her name is Captain Zoya Maximova. Perhaps you know her.”
“The name is not familiar to me,” Zukhov said, heart hammering in his chest.
Arkhipov said quietly, “I find it … concerning … that the one person we are most confident is a member of the Red Hand is an officer in the army. Don’t you, Secretary?”
Sobol said, “It concerns me, but the connection is tenuous at best. She appears to have disappeared after the theft of weapons from the Novosibirsk facility—”
“That were used by the Red Hand in these attacks!” Tur snapped. “There is no doubt the chemical weapons were used at the U.S., Canadian, Saudi and Israeli embassies. The connection is not tenuous.”
“But that could be a coincidence,” Zukhov said. “Unfortunately, soldiers do leave their posts. Even officers.”
Zukhov felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket, but ignored it. You didn’t answer your phone at this high level of a meeting. The leaders continued their discussion, not getting anywhere. President Eltsin wouldn’t commit to anything, as usual; Tur wanted the status quo to continue while the FSB investigated; Sobol wanted the status quo to continue while he checked to see which way the wind was blowing; Arkhipov was manipulating the others to see which would most undermine Eltsin’s dithering.
“I still believe my troops should be utilized in this emergency,” Zukhov said. “What if the Red Hand strikes again? They have made multiple attacks in the city, as well as in St. Petersburg.”
Sobol gazed across the table. “Fine, Val. Raise the alert level. Prepare for the worst.”
“Word will get out and the people will panic even more,” Tur said. Turning to President Eltsin, “Sir, speak to the people. Assure them that everything is under control.”
Eltsin stared at his hands as if deep in thought. Finally he looked up. “As you see fit, General Zukhov. Ready your troops, but no presence on the streets. And no unauthorized press conferences. Understand?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
The meeting broke up and Zukhov joined his chief of staff in heading back to his limousine. He checked his phone and saw that the call was from Dmitri. But he’d left no voice mail. Scowling, he put the phone back in his pocket. Dmitri usually only called when he wanted more money.
As they walked, Zukhov directed his chief of staff to put the Moscow and St. Petersburg troops on high alert and to prepare for a possible policing action in the cities. As they approached the limousine, his phone vibrated again. Clicking it on, he said, “Dmitri, what do you want?”
An unfamiliar voice said, “It’s not Dmitri, General. We have Dmitri. And you have someone we wish to exchange for him.”
25
In Moscow, Grechko pulled into a Teremok and ordered food for the three of them. As they drove away, he handed most of the food to Raisa. Once he had gotten well away from the Red Hand’s facility, he had told her to take th
e bag off her head.
Lev had awakened hungry. He now munched on a blini and drank apple juice. Grechko wondered what the kid was thinking, if he had any grasp of what was going on. The kid seemed happy enough, now that he was being fed. He’d woken up cranky, crying, but quieting when the grandmother comforted him, stroking his hair and murmuring into his ear.
Raisa said, “Where are we going?”
“Just driving for a while. Staying on the move.”
“You could just pull over and let us out. Leave this.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and met her gaze. He grunted. “You and I both know that won’t happen.”
“Lev will need a diaper change.”
“How old is he?”
“Two.”
Grechko nodded to himself. “Do you have diapers?”
“Yes. When they kidnapped us they brought supplies.”
“Change him when he is done eating.”
They crossed the Moscow River. Grechko’s phone rang.
“Da.”
It was Shos. “We have a problem.”
“What?” Thinking: Every since the first contact there’s been one damned problem after another.
“Stillwater kidnapped Dmitri and wants to trade him for the boy.”
Grechko laughed out loud. “I like him. I like the way he works. That’s outstanding. How is the General handling this?”
“Not well. He wants Stillwater crushed.”
“It’s a chess game. You didn’t realize Stillwater was a player when Titov sicced me on him. Brilliant.”
“Not fucking brilliant. This complicated matters.”
“Not really,” Grechko said.
“Yes, really. The General wants Dmitri traded for the boy. He doesn’t give a damn about Stillwater just as long as he’s dead and Dmitri is fine.”