The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Hanging up, he thought for a moment, then called Kuts. “I’m going to bring you someone. We need to interrogate him.”

  “Who?”

  Konstantin hesitated. “Dmitri Zukhov.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Who?”

  “Dmitri Zukhov. His father is—”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “I think General Zukhov is the Z that runs the Red Hand.”

  The sirens grew closer. Two uniformed cops approached. Konstantin raised his ID.

  “You’d better have proof.”

  Konstantin knew he didn’t actually have proof. But Dmitri Zukhov would be able to confirm his suspicions.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You’re going to get us all killed. Do not bring me into this, Konstantin. I will not interrogate him. Understand me?”

  Konstantin thought he did. “Da,” he said. “I understand.” He clicked off. Maybe it would be better this way. An ambulance pulled up and the paramedics piled out. As they loaded Stillwater into the back, the American opened his eyes.

  He mumbled, “Lev?”

  Nodding, Konstantin said, “Yes. We got him. He’s safe.”

  Then Stillwater was unconscious.

  Konstantin placed a very difficult phone call to the U.S. Embassy, telling them where Derek Stillwater was headed. Then he went to deal with Dmitri.

  Derek woke up briefly as he was being loaded into an ambulance. Konstantin leaned over him. Derek’s head hurt. He croaked out, “Lev?” and saw Konstantin nod his head. Then he slipped back into the warm embrace of nothingness.

  When he swam back to consciousness he was lying on a bed. Everything felt wrapped in cotton, as if he were disconnected from all his nerve endings.

  Glancing slowly over to his left, he saw a woman all dressed in black sitting next to the bed. He squinted. Erica Kirov leaned down.

  He started to sit up, but she put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back into the bed. “Try not to move for a while. You have a concussion. Nothing too serious—you were lucky … again. But it’s going to hurt a lot and if you sit up I don’t think you’re going to like it at all.”

  He stayed there and processed that information for a moment. Then he said, “I hate Russia,” and drifted off again.

  The next time he woke up Erica was still there, only this time she was asleep, curled up in a chair. He waited to adjust to the pounding in his head, then laboriously levered himself into a sitting position.

  So far so good, he thought, fighting back nausea and an incoming wave of gray. He shivered.

  Erica opened her eyes and sat up. Derek noticed a set of crutches on the floor next to her chair. “You’re up,” she said. “But you look awful.”

  “Then I look about how I feel.”

  She handed him a Styrofoam cup of ice water. He sipped at it. The nausea receded a tiny bit.

  “Should I ask what the damages are?”

  “Concussion. Some scalp lacerations. A minor skull fracture. No apparent brain injury.” She grinned. “Although without a baseline…”

  “Ah. Humor. For some reason I find the attempt a little weak.”

  “It’s Russia.”

  He nodded at her. “And you?”

  “I’ll be limping for quite some time.”

  They considered each other. Finally Derek said, “What time is it?”

  She checked her watch. “Just before noon.”

  “So what’s going—”

  He stopped talking when a nurse came in to check on him. The woman spoke in Russian, looked to be about twenty-years-old with black hair. Erica translated for her. “She wants to check your vitals.”

  He shrugged and immediately regretted the motion. “Sure.”

  The nurse fussed and clucked and took his pulse and looked in his eyes, then spoke in Russian for a while to Erica. Erica answered without translating, then said to Derek, “The Embassy will pick up the bill. You’re free to go. Do you need a wheelchair?”

  He tried standing up. The world canted at an angle and he sat back down and rested his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Stop being so macho. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Again.”

  “Again,” she agreed. “You’re pushing your luck. But we’ve got a problem.”

  “No kidding. The Red Hand’s trying to overthrow the government.”

  “Maybe a bigger problem than that. Let’s get you to the embassy.”

  She found a wheelchair and a moment later he was listening to Erica discuss payment for services in Russian with an attendant. When she was done he said, “Where’s Konstantin?”

  Exhaustion washed over Konstantin like a tsunami. He had returned Dmitri to the dacha and returned to Moscow. Now, walking through the hallway of the hospital to check on Irina, everything hit at once. The stress of the explosions, the kidnapping of Lev, the murders of Eduard and Yekaterina, the car chases, kidnapping, interrogations, planning… He and Derek Stillwater had fought a war during the night. It was miracle they were both alive.

  He slipped into a restroom and splashed water on his face. The man in the mirror looked the same, but tired. Dark circles around his bloodshot eyes.

  Lev is safe, he thought. That is the most important thing.

  But he knew he wasn’t done yet. Drying his face and hands, he headed to the ward where he had left Irina. As he walked down the hallway leading to her room, he noted a blonde woman walking from the other direction. In black jeans and a leather jacket, her head down, hands tucked into her pockets, Konstantin at first didn’t think much of what he saw. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then the woman turned into Irina’s room.

  A cascade of thoughts clicked together.

  The woman: Captain Zoya Maximova.

  Konstantin reached for his gun as he sprinted toward the room. Skidding through the door, he immediately saw Maximova standing in the center of the room, swaying as if trying to maintain her balance.

  He shouted for her to freeze, aiming the gun at her back.

  Slowly the woman turned. Her hands were hidden in the pockets of her leather jacket. Her skin was very pale except for a red rash down one cheek.

  “So,” she said. “The great Konstantin. It’s too late, you know.”

  He glanced past her to the bed. Irina stirred beneath the sheets. Monitors beeped and chirped. She was alive.

  “Hands out of your pockets. Now.”

  “You can’t stop us, Konstantin.” Her eyes momentarily went out of focus and her voice trembled. She shook her head hard as if to wake herself. “It’s already begun.”

  He adjusted his stance, holding the gun steady. “I will put a bullet in your head right now if you don’t take your hands out of your pockets. I’m done screwing around with you.”

  With a nod, she pulled her hands from her pockets. In one hand she held a grenade.

  Konstantin didn’t hesitate. He dropped his gun and flung himself at her, fists clasped around her hand. With her free hand she yanked the pin. He refused to let go, locking her fingers around the strike lever.

  Snarling, she kicked out at him, catching him in the thigh. He held on, shouting for help. It was like trying to hold onto a spitting wildcat. She clawed at him, kicking, twisting and turning.

  They rotated around each other, the live grenade the maypole they danced around. As they rotated, he saw something move. Then he saw motion and heard a heard a crash.

  Maximova collapsed to the floor, a huge dent in her skull, her neck bent at an odd angle. Konstantin went down with her, still clutching her hand, the grenade caught in his fingers.

  Crouched on her bed in a tangle of IV lines and monitor wires, Irina Khournikova had gripped her IV stand and struck Maximova over the head with it.

  Eyes glazed, Irina said, “Lev?”

 
Hands white on the grenade, Konstantin said, “Safe.”

  Irina crumpled to the bed.

  A doctor, two nurses and a security guard rushed through the door. Konstantin held up the grenade. His heart thundered in his chest. “I’m Konstantin Nikitinov, FSB. Help me find the goddamned pin to this grenade.”

  Two blocks from the Bolshoi, Mikhail Grechko slipped into his car and shakily pushed the key into the ignition, firing up the engine. He inhaled hard, then reached inside his coat to touch his left shoulder. The fingers came away covered with blood.

  When Stillwater shot him in the ribs it had hurt, but not a lot of damage had been done.

  This gunshot was different. He had felt an explosion of pain. Training, adrenaline, and his own fitness and toughness had kept him moving, kept him conscious. But he had no use of his left arm and the pain was enormous. The bullet must have plowed into the shoulder and torn up muscle and tendon and bone.

  Laboriously shifting the car into gear, he gritted his teeth, fighting to stay conscious, and drove directly to the woman’s apartment, the motherly doctor who had worked on him before. Pulling into a nearby parking spot, he cut off the engine and slumped forward onto the steering wheel. Time passed. He didn’t know if he was entirely conscious or not. What was the hallucination and what was reality?

  Finally, rousing himself, he struggled out of the car. It seemed to take forever to stumble to the entrance, lean into the door, and ride the rickety elevator to the woman’s floor, ever so grateful there was an elevator in this building. He would never have been able to climb the stairs.

  With one fist he pounded on her door. After a moment the door opened and Grechko collapsed into her entryway. The tenuous grasp on consciousness he had held so long loosened and the world slipped away.

  Grechko woke at movement. The woman was dragging him across the floor by the collar. The pain in his arm was like nothing he had ever experienced. He cursed her and she told him to shut up. Then he was gone.

  For a while he dreamt. He saw Stillwater walking toward him wearing only jeans, snowflakes landing on his bare skin.

  Then Stillwater turned into his own father, remembered only from old photographs, wearing his Russian Army uniform. Holding his arms out to his sides, saying, “I’d sacrifice myself for you.”

  And Grechko knew that was a lie.

  And he woke up again as the woman injected needles into his shoulder. He stared at her, confused. She said, “This is very bad. Far beyond what I can do here. I can stop the bleeding, but you need surgery. Real surgery, not something I can do here.”

  And then he blanked out again.

  This time he dreamt of his mother. They were sitting at a table eating boiled sausages and potatoes. Stillwater sat next to them, ignoring the food, scowling at him. His mother said, “You’re a hero.”

  Stillwater said, “Where is Lev? Where is the boy?”

  He woke up again to see the woman again. She said, “I’ve stopped the bleeding. Patched you up. But you need surgery or you might lose use of the arm.”

  He thought hard, fighting through the fog. He said, “Pain medication?”

  “I’ve given you morphine.”

  “I need to be mobile for a few hours. Then I’m leaving the country. Can you do that?”

  The old woman, hair gray, face wrinkled, glowered at him. “If I do, don’t come back here. I can’t do anything else for you.”

  “Just do it,” he said, and faded away again, hoping that Stillwater would stay out of his dreams.

  Erica Kirov seemed to be handling driving reasonably well despite only using one leg. As they drove from the hospital to the embassy, Derek frowned. There were armed Russian soldiers everywhere. As they passed one road they saw two Russian tanks on the road.

  “He brought out the military,” he said, voice soft.

  “Who?”

  “Zukhov. He’s already started. He’s starting a military coup.”

  She frowned. “It doesn’t seem like a strong enough presence.”

  “But what about at the Kremlin? Surround it with tanks and soldiers, claim it’s to protect the government from the Red Hand getting in, but in reality he’s keeping the Duma and the politburo locked in.”

  Kirov’s skin stretched taut over her face. “Let’s hope you’re being dramatic.”

  Within minutes they were at the U.S. Embassy. The U.S. Embassy’s own Marine presence had increased. Despite credentials they were asked to step out of the car and were carefully searched. Ruefully Derek noted that he was weaponless, that Grechko had seen to that and none of his scattered weapons had made it with him to the hospital.

  Upon checking in, the security officer handed them badges and told them they were expected immediately in the second-floor conference room. Derek followed Kirov up. The conference room was windowless with a large maple conference table and a dozen brown leather chairs. Several large plasma screens dominated the wall, although they were currently black.

  Seated at the table was Head of Security Jim Hall and three other people. One of them Derek knew, but wasn’t particularly glad to see. “This can’t be good,” he said.

  Everyone in the room turned to look at them. One of the women at the table stood up and crossed over and gave him a hug. “It’s good to see you, but you look terrible.”

  “I’m not having a good trip to Russia. Have you been here long?”

  The woman was Sharon Weil. Last Derek had heard, she was with a group called the Global Public Health Intelligence Network, which had been developed with the World Health Organization and Health Canada. They had known each other when Derek was a weapons inspector with the United Nations.

  “I was in Germany, but we got an alert about twelve hours ago. When I checked in here with the Embassy I was told you were in-country.” She nodded to the man. “This is Jude Washe.”

  “Also with GPHIN?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, rising to shake Derek’s hand. “I’m with the Agency. You look like you need a cup of coffee.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Sit down. Mr. Hall and Sharon filled me in on your background while we waited for you to arrive. I think we’re going to need you.”

  With a hot cup of coffee in his hand, Derek drank greedily while Sharon said, “In the last twenty-four hours we had a physician here in Moscow report a possible case of smallpox and a physician indicate two potential cases of smallpox in Dagestan.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows. “Where the hell is Dagestan?”

  Jude said, “Bordering Georgia and Azerbaijan on the Caspian Sea.”

  “We’ve got a couple people heading to Dagestan now to check on the patients. We’re on our way to the hospital to see the patient here in Moscow. We want to see if there’s any connection between them.”

  “And to see,” Erica said, “if there’s any connection to weapons stolen from Novosibirsk.”

  “That’s where Dr. Stillwater would come in,” Jude said.

  Derek drained his cup of coffee and said, “I’m going to need another one of these. And ibuprofin. And, uh, Jim…”

  The head of security had remained quiet during the conversation. “Yes?”

  “I lost your gun. Want to loan me another?”

  27

  Konstantin did not like what he was seeing in Moscow. The army was everywhere. They weren’t being as obvious as they had been during the October Putsch, but it was clear that Zukhov had deployed his troops throughout the city so their presence would be noted. He drove out to his dacha. Before he went into the cellar, he took out his gun and made sure it was fully loaded. From a cupboard in the kitchen he retrieved a bottle of vodka and drank deeply, thinking hard about what he was about to do.

  He took measured steps to the cellar. Dmitri was slumped against the wall, glaring at him. Hands cuffed behind his back.

  “My father will kill you! When the government is ours, he will kill you.”

  Konstantin considered the young man, who despite his situati
on was still arrogant and defiant. He had to admire the defiance. Dmitri Zukhov was an idiot, but he had some iron in his spine.

  “You know your father sacrificed you. He was told to return the little boy in exchange for you and he refused. He loves power more than he loves you.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Konstantin smiled. Perhaps Dmitri was going to make this easier than he had thought.

  He crouched down in front of the young man, gun held loosely between his knees. “I’ve got a few questions. I highly recommend that you answer them.”

  “Or what?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Konstantin said, “Or else I will make you answer me. And if that doesn’t work, I will just kill you.”

  “My father is General Zukhov!”

  “I think that’s been well established. It’s not germane.”

  “Germane?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dmitri. What I’m saying is that I know full well who your father is and I know what he intends to do. And if he succeeds and I’m still around, yes, I will undoubtedly be punished or killed. So I’m motivated to stop him.” He paused. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where are the weapons? Where is the Red Hand?”

  Dmitri stared at him. “What weapons?”

  Knees popping as he rose, Konstantin said, “Get up.”

  Dmitri’s face twisted. “What? Why?”

  “Stand up, Dmitri. We’re going for a walk.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Hand lashing out, Konstantin whipped the man’s head with the gun. Dmitri shouted, trying to scramble away.

  “Stand up.”

  Cowering, hair hanging in his eyes, a welt rising on his check, Dmitri glared at him.

  “Now, Dmitri. Or I will hit you again.”

  Slowly Dmitri struggled to his feet.

  “To the stairs.”

  Dmitri climbed the stairs and shouldered through the door into the kitchen.

  “Out the back door. I’ll open it.”

  Dmitri stumbled down the wooden steps. The back of the dacha faced a small lake surrounded by birch forest.

  “Let’s go.”