by Mark Terry
“Where are we going?”
“Into the woods.”
Dmitri stared at him. “Why?”
“I’m going to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m not telling you anything.” But he didn’t sound as confident as he had a few minutes before.
“We’ll see.”
“Why in the woods?”
“Let’s go. Start walking.”
“I’m not—”
Konstantin kicked him, his heel striking the man in the chest, making him stumble backward, almost falling to the hard frozen ground. His eyes were wide. He was putting it together, Konstantin thought.
Dmitri cried, “Why the woods? Why not just ask? Why?”
Cocking his head, Konstantin said, “Do you think you have many options here, Dmitri? I’m FSB. Perhaps you’re too young to remember the KGB, but surely you’ve heard the stories? I was KGB before FSB. We’re not that different, you know.” He shrugged a very Russian shrug, a shrug that carried the weight of years of oppression and violence. Of history.
“What … what do you mean?”
“Start walking. Now.”
“What…”
Konstantin raised the gun and aimed it at Dmitri’s face. “Where are the weapons the Red Hand stole? The smallpox. The Soman gas. All the others. Where are they?”
“If I tell you…”
“If you tell me I might let you live.”
“Might?”
Another shrug.
Without warning Dmitri turned and ran toward the woods, stumbling over the uneven ground into the woods with his hands still cuffed behind him. Cursing, Konstantin ran after him.
When Dmitri realized Konstantin was catching him, he veered and sprinted toward the lake. “No, Dmitri, don’t!”
Dmitri sprinted out onto the ice, stumbling, moving further away. Konstantin stopped at the lake’s edge. “Dmitri, stop, come—”
The ice gave way beneath him and he disappeared into the deep black water. He went down like a stone, hands cuffed behind him.
And never came back up.
Erica drove the four of them to Botkin Hospital. As they drove, Derek pulled out his phone. Erica asked who he was calling.
“Jude, Sharon, I really recommend you don’t listen to this phone call or admit to having heard it if you do.”
“Who the hell are you calling?” Jude asked.
“I just don’t want you to misunderstand here. Okay?” And he dialed Konstantin’s number. After five rings the phone picked up. Konstantin, in English, said, “Derek?”
“Lev safe?”
“Yes. Zoya Maximova tried to kill Irina.”
“What?!”
Konstantin told him about the events in the hospital. Derek was quiet for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, “Is Irina under guard now?”
“Yes. I called a couple of my most trusted team members. They’re in the room with her. Derek…”
“What?”
“Never mind. We’ll talk later, perhaps.”
“Maybe sooner than you think.” He told Konstantin about the smallpox cases that had been reported to the international infectious disease monitoring community.
Konstantin said, “You may not be able to talk to him, if he’s still alive. The military may be there. Possibly the FSB, although I think I might have heard about it if they had. Certainly the government has been alerted, but perhaps with the terror attacks and the army possibly attempting a coup they’re not paying attention. Wait for me. I’m half an hour out.”
“We’ll try to get started. Maybe we can talk to the doctor who reported it if we get there first.”
“They will talk to me,” Konstantin said.
“Good. And Konstantin…”
“Da?”
“You have been vaccinated for smallpox, right?”
They made it to the hospital about thirty minutes later, Erica quietly cursing the Moscow traffic the entire route. The army had set up what seemed like random roadblocks that dragged the normally sluggish traffic to a crawl. Sharon and Erica handled administration, Sharon providing WHO credentials and backstory, Erica providing the translation. The hospital administrator who was “helping” them was an officious dumpling of a man with badly thinning black hair and body odor that could have been classified as biological warfare. He was explaining to Erica that he would have to discuss their presence with the Federal Public Health Institute, when Konstantin burst through the door holding up his FSB credentials.
With what Derek thought was a legitimately angry expression on his face, Konstantin snapped out a shotgun of harsh Russian. The hospital administrator wilted beneath the barrage and quickly disappeared into his office to make a phone call. A minute later he returned, having apparently pushed his Obsequious Button, and found a personal escort that would take them to speak with Dr. Daniil Federov, the emergency room physician who had initially diagnosed Pavel Botkin.
Derek thought Dr. Federov looked too young to be a doctor. He was pudgy and had red hair and freckles. Dr. Federov met them in a conference room lined with medical books that was dominated by an oval table and chairs. Dr. Federov also looked very tired. And maybe a little worried.
On the walk to the conference room Derek had introduced everyone to Konstantin. Jude Washe had given Derek a hard look, but otherwise kept his cool. Konstantin, somewhat to Derek’s surprise, introduced them to Dr. Federov as “Dr. Derek Stillwater, an infectious disease specialist with the U.S. State Department,” and both Sharon and Jude as belonging to the World Health Organization.
“How is the patient?” Derek asked, jumping in before Sharon or Konstantin could start asking questions.
In very good English, Dr. Federov said, “He’s in stable condition. He came in severely dehydrated with a high fever. We’ve given him fluids and worked to bring the fever down. He’s also on prophylactic antibiotics because of some concerns of secondary bacterial infections. No one on staff has any experience treating smallpox.” He looked apologetic. “No one has had smallpox in over thirty years.”
“Was the patient vaccinated for smallpox?”
Dr. Federov looked sharply at him. “He has not. Why do you ask?”
“Certainly you don’t believe this is a natural case of smallpox?” Derek asked. “It’s from military theft.”
Konstantin cleared his throat. The physician looked at him. “That is classified, Doctor. There will be repercussions if that information gets spread to the media.”
Erica said, “It was reported to international monitors. It’s likely to be hitting CNN and other media sources already.”
“Not the military thefts,” Konstantin said.
“Could we focus on the problem at hand,” Derek snapped. Turning back to Federov, he said, “We need to talk to him immediately.”
Dr. Federov hesitated. “That will require permission from Dr. Pajari. He’s the infectious disease specialist.”
Konstantin shook his head. “No it won’t. Let’s go, Doctor. Now.”
Derek had seen photographs of smallpox. And he was just old enough to have received the smallpox vaccine as a young child and had the scar on his forearm to prove it. He had also insisted on being revaccinated during the first Gulf War when he was in Iraq hunting for Saddam Hussein’s weapons stores.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t completely prepared for seeing a full-blown smallpox case in person. Pavel Botkin looked like his face and neck and arms had thousands of red Rice Krispies glued to his skin. Botkin looked disconcertingly non-human.
In the interest of limiting their exposure, the only ones to go into the room were Derek and Konstantin, both fully gowned up and wearing masks and gloves. Derek told Konstantin that smallpox could be borne in saliva and by touch.
“But don’t touch him,” he said. “Particularly any of the pox that might be weeping or bleeding.”
Derek could tell Konstantin wasn’t comfortable in the room. It was an isolation room, small, with a window on one wall and a specially se
aling glass sliding door. Derek imagined it was primarily used for TB patients. He hadn’t been confident that Russia would have one in this hospital, but he was grateful it did.
Studying the monitors on the wall, Derek noted that Pavel Botkin’s heart rate was high and his blood pressure was low. He also was running a high temperate. Some math in his head indicated around 102 Fahrenheit. Whatever the doctor had told them, Pavel Botkin wasn’t out of the woods yet, particularly if the Russian bioengineers had heated up the smallpox strain so it was more lethal.
When Konstantin spoke, Pavel Botkin opened his eyes and turned his head. He responded in Russian. Konstantin translated.
“He wants to know if he’s going to die.”
“The doctors don’t think so. Ask him how he got exposed.”
Konstantin eyed Derek, then shrugged, muttering something to himself in Russian. Derek tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s the problem?”
“We may get into some classified areas. But hell, Derek. We’ve come this far, why not further? What’s a little treason among friends?” He turned back to Pavel.
Pavel Botkin shook his head and looked away when Konstantin spoke to him. Derek maneuvered toward the end of the bed so the Russian had to either look at him or at Konstantin or close his eyes. Derek gestured with two fingers at his own eyes, then at Pavel Botkin. “Ask him again.”
Konstantin did.
Botkin spat out, “Mudak.”
Derek was pretty sure that was one “bastard.” Konstantin didn’t seem terribly bothered by it and asked him again.
When Botkin didn’t answer, Konstantin rattled off more Russian.
“What did you—”
Konstantin raised his hand to silence Derek. He said something else to Pavel. Reluctantly Pavel Botkin answered.
To Derek, Konstantin said, “I asked him where he served. He was in the army. He was a bomb technician. He spent time in Afghanistan.”
“Tell him I’ve been to Afghanistan. It sucks.”
Konstantin’s nodded. “So all three of us have something in common.” He gestured at Derek and spoke to Pavel. Pavel’s attention drifted over to Derek. He seemed mildly interested. He said something.
Konstantin translated. “He wants to know if you are CIA.”
“No. I’m not. I worked with them for a while back in the early 1990s. Now I’m temporarily on loan to the U.S. State Department.”
Pavel and Konstantin spoke for a moment. Konstantin laughed and turned to Derek. “He wants to know why anyone would fry raisins?”
It took Derek a moment to make the connection. The national dish of Afghanistan was Palao. It was a rice dish cooked with some sort of meat—chicken, lamb, goat—then pistachios, slivered carrots and fried raisins were put on top. He said, “Tell him I liked them. Much better than borscht.”
Pavel grunted. “Otebis.”
Derek looked to Konstantin for translation, who shrugged and said, “Means ‘fuck off.’ Think you’d know that one by now.”
“Ask him if he knows a lot about bombs.”
“Da.”
Konstantin asked a few more questions. Finally he nodded. “Yes. He said he makes bombs for the Red Hand.”
“Ask him—”
“Give me time, Derek. He’s talking.”
But Derek felt that time was ticking away. It was a familiar feeling, the pressure of time, gnawing at his gut, a parasite that ate its way out from the inside, goading him to track down the source of the infection.
Suddenly the doors slid open and a stocky Russian in a green surgical gown stomped in, shouting at them. Konstantin turned and responded in kind. Derek was pretty certain Dr. Pajari had arrived.
The two men were nose-to-nose, shouting, when Derek stepped close and said, “Ask him if the infection seems to be proceeding normally.”
Dr. Pajari glared at him and in heavily accented English said, “Who are you?”
Derek told him.
“You have no business being here.”
“But I am here and I am an expert on biological weapons. In your professional opinion, is this behaving like a normal case of smallpox … whatever normal is?”
“I’ve never seen an actual case of smallpox. And neither have you.”
“That’s correct. But I’ve studied the literature and the case studies. Does this seem severe?”
The physician stared at him. Then he squinted at Konstantin. “Is this a bioweapon? Will we have more infections?”
Konstantin shrugged.
Derek said, “Yes, it’s a bioweapon. And yes, there will be more infections. If we can find out where Pavel was exposed, and who he’s exposed, and who else might have been exposed, we might be able to contain it.”
Pavel croaked out something in Russian. Konstantin turned to him and answered. The doctor checked the readings. Derek said, “His temperature’s staying high.”
“And his platelets are low, his white cell count is up and his prothrombin time is … dysfunctional.”
“Cerebral swelling?”
“I’m worried about it.”
Derek was right. Pavel wasn’t out of trouble yet. His blood cells weren’t clotting properly and there was some worry about brain swelling or encephalitis as the virus infected his nervous system and potentially his brain.
Konstantin suddenly turned. “We have a location.”
“Ask him how much smallpox he had?”
But when they turned back to Pavel Botkin, he was unconscious. Glancing at the monitors, Derek saw that the blood pressure was dropping rapidly and the temperature had jumped to 104.
Dr. Pajari told them to get out and was already shouting into an intercom for a nurse. Konstantin and Derek left the isolation room to the high-pitched whine of monitor alarms.
After getting out of their sterile garb, Konstantin headed for the door, telling Derek, “I have to get a raid organized. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Derek caught his arm. “I’m going with you.”
With a shake of his head, Konstantin said, “Derek. This will be an official FSB raid on a terrorist group. There is no place for you there.”
“Will any of them be experts on biological and chemical weapons?”
Konstantin hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It’s not politically possible. Absolutely not. There is no way I will get permission.”
“What about the Dagestan connection?”
“I’ll brief my people. But Derek, Dagestan is a republic of the Russian Federation. You can’t just go poking around there.”
“The WHO is going to be hunting around for people with smallpox. Here and in Dagestan.”
“And perhaps you should help them. But you’re not helping on this raid.” He shook Derek’s hand. “Thank you for everything. I will contact you.” And he hurried out of the room.
Derek was met by Erica, Sharon and Jude. “Where’s your KGB buddy?” Jude asked.
“FSB, and why don’t you stick it up your ass.”
Jude smiled and scratched his shaved head. “Touchy. What’s going on?”
With a jerk of his thumb, Derek told them about Pavel and the information he’d given Konstantin, although it had been in Russian and he didn’t know what it was.
Sharon said she needed to meet up with the WHO office in Moscow and help them coordinate with the Russian public health officials. “You’re confident it’s smallpox?”
“Very.”
“Let’s hope we can contain it.”
“I’ll tag along,” Jude said. “As for you, Stillwater, I suggest you take a nap or something. You look like something a dog coughed up.”
28
Grechko opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was for a moment. Then he remembered.
Turning his head he saw he was lying on a bed in what looked like a bedroom. There were framed photographs on the wall, many of them black and white, old. A round end table covered with lace was next to the bed. An old maple dresser was against one wall.
He struggled to sit up. His arm was tightly wrapped. He couldn’t move it at all from the sling. Grechko rolled sideways and lurched to an upright position, wincing as pain cut through the dullness he knew must be caused by morphine.
The old woman appeared at the door. “You are doing very well, but it will be difficult for you. The morphine won’t last long. There’s a lot of damage. I’ve only done first aid. If you don’t have surgery you will probably lose the arm. You may die. I’ve given you antibiotics. Pain medication. But all I’ve done is stabilize the shoulder. If you move it much, you’ll rip open the stitches and start bleeding again.”
He nodded and started to rise to his feet. He grayed out and was forced to lean forward, panting for air. The doctor did nothing to help him. And maybe she was right, he thought. Get to a hospital. Get patched up. Get the hell out of the country.
And then she was by his side with a bottle of vodka. “It will help. But it will hurt as well.”
And then she jabbed him in the arm with a syringe. He looked up at her. She said, “A stimulant.”
“And the vodka?”
She shrugged, a smile on her face. “You are Russian, no?”
And already he was feeling the stimulant flood his veins. He jammed the bottle top in his mouth and uncapped it, spitting out the cap. “That could be the worst part about the shoulder. Not being able to open the damn bottle on my own.” He knocked back a swallow, feeling the burn.
Tucking the bottle between his knees, he recapped it and struggled to his feet. He wavered for a moment, then stood straight. “Help me with my coat.”
She did, getting his good arm into the sleeve, draping the coat over his shoulder. He reached into the pocket and gripped the gun. He checked it. “Do you know guns?”
She nodded.
“Pull the magazine.”
She took the gun from him and released the lever.
“Put a fresh one in. I’ve got two, but they’re in my left pocket.”
She did.
He took the gun from her and clipped off the safety, dropping it back into his jacket pocket. Taking out his wallet, he flipped it open and fumbled out money. “Thank you,” he said.
“I don’t want to see you ever again.”