The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  A grin twisted his face. “I don’t want to see you again either.”

  He left her apartment, rode the elevator to the ground floor, and walked to his car. Icy wind blew the smell of benzene and smoked meat, a hint of sewage. Grechko had traveled the world. Each city smelled different. Moscow’s odor was horrid, but it smelled of home. Even after all these years. Slumping into the driver’s seat, his face beaded with sweat, wave after wave of nausea swept over him. Fumbling with the vodka bottle, he managed to get it open and took another swallow.

  Taking a deep breath, he ignited the engine and headed the car in the direction of the Red Hand’s headquarters outside of Moscow.

  Konstantin left the hospital, brain in turmoil, wearing exhaustion like a lead trenchcoat. Back in his car, he first called his brother to check on Lev and Raisa. Satisfied that they were out of the city and safe, he called one of his trusted deputies to make sure that Irina was safe. She was. They had stabilized her and moved her by ambulance to a clinic outside the city, as he requested. Two guards were at her door.

  And finally he called Alek Kuts. Kuts interrupted him. “You have Zukhov’s son?”

  Konstantin paused. “No. Look, I need to come in and make a report. I’ve located the headquarters of the Red Hand, where they have their weapons stored. It’s an armed camp. We need to go in, we need to go in hard and we need to do it as soon as possible. I want an FSB strike team, preferably a big one. With Zukhov behind this, we can’t involve the military—”

  “Where is Dmitri Zukhov, Konstantin?”

  At the bottom of a very deep pond, thought Konstantin, where he will probably stay until the ice melts. Or perhaps forever.

  “Alek, this isn’t the time—”

  “Come in to Lubyanka. File a report. We will discuss this.”

  “We have to—”

  “We will. But you have to come in, Konstantin. Now.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Konstantin said, “Da. I’m on my way.”

  It took longer than expected. Moscow’s traffic had congealed into chrome and steel sludge, and the military checkpoints weren’t helping matters. He listened to the radio as he sat in traffic. There were reports of large mobs of protesters descending on Red Square and on Sakharov Avenue.

  When he got within two blocks of Lubyanka, traffic had slowed to a standstill. The streets were filled with people holding black banners and carrying signs. Uniformed soldiers patrolled the corners.

  He squeezed the car next to the curb and shouldered his way through the crowds. The atmosphere was both tense and jovial—some of the people were having a good time, some were angry and frightened by the heavy military presence. Konstantin thought grimly that he had lived through this several times already and would be happy not to live through it again.

  He finally made it into Lubyanka, through security, and checked in at his own office. It was empty. For a moment he sat at his desk and tried to remember the last time he had been here. He rested his elbows on his desk and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. The image of Dmitri Zukhov crashing through the ice and disappearing flashed through his mind.

  Why does it bother you so much? Weren’t you going to take him out into the birch forest and kill him anyway? Weren’t you going to do things the Russian way? Find out what you want and dispose of the body? Why does this bother you now? After what you have done in the last two days?

  Perhaps it was because when General Zukhov had gone after family, he had crossed a line.

  “An imaginary one,” he muttered.

  “Talking to yourself, Konstantin?”

  Konstantin hadn’t realized that Alek Kuts was standing at the door. He sighed. “I am very tired. Have a seat.”

  Kuts shrugged, but didn’t move from the doorway. His leather trenchcoat was gone, but he wore a gray suit, black shirt, gray tie. The shirt and the tie were silk. The suit looked tailored. Konstantin thought Kuts always did like to dress carefully. How Russia had changed. No more baggy suits. Armani, bought right at Emporio Armani in Moscow.

  “I told you to come back here and make a report twenty-four hours ago. You went totally off the grid, Konstantin. Have you gone rogue?”

  Sitting upright, Konstantin swept a hand toward the wall, a gesture he meant to encompass the entire city. “Have you looked outside? Have you seen what’s going on out there, Alek? There are terrorists attacking the city and our own military is behind it, making people afraid that the only way to feel safe is if the army declares martial law. It’s another October Putsch.”

  “Boris Yeltsin was corrupt, and you know it.”

  Konstantin leaned back in his chair. “General Zukhov is behind these attacks. He’s behind the Red Hand. You brought me into this, Alek. You were concerned about exactly what I found out. General Zukhov is trying to overthrow the elected government.”

  Kuts took a cigarette case out of his pocket and a silver-plated lighter out of his other. With a deft motion he lit up the cigarette and took a puff. “Are we really going to argue politics, Konstantin? You were doing your job. Titov was leaking information. You tracked down the leak.”

  “And proved that Zukhov was behind the Red Hand. Behind the bombings. Behind the theft of military weapons in Novosibirsk.”

  A spume of blue smoke erupted from Kuts’s mouth. “Is it possible for a General to steal military weapons? A gray area, I think.”

  Konstantin stared at Kuts. He felt a creeping sensation along his spine. Very carefully he said, “We can stop this madness, Alek. We pull together a raid on the compound. We do it tonight. The Black Eagles are available.” The Black Eagles were one of several FSB paramilitary units available in Moscow.

  Kuts raised a calming hand, the burning cigarette smoldering between his thumb and forefinger. “Come with me, Konstantin. I need you to talk to someone.”

  “Who?”

  Kuts shrugged. “Come on. Someone higher up. We’ll discuss your plan.”

  Frowning, Konstantin got to his feet and followed Kuts out of his office. Kuts waved him ahead. “We need to speak with Prime Minister Arkhipov.”

  Spinning on his heels, Konstantin said, “What?” And froze, because Alek Kuts now held a Makarov in his fist.

  “What’s this?” Konstantin demanded.

  “You have been a little too good at your job, Konstantin. Titov wasn’t very good at his. We wanted you to track down anything that might lead back to our efforts. If you couldn’t, we knew Titov was doing his job. But he was unreliable. You, on the other hand, have been very good at this.”

  Konstantin’s face tightened. Kremlin games, as usual. He had been played. Anger rushed through him. The Kremlin was rotten to its very black heart. “And Prime Minister Arkhipov?”

  “What of him?”

  “Does he know what’s going on?”

  “He suspects. He wants President Eltsin out of the way. He’s counting on Zukhov to do that. Zukhov thinks he will get Arkhipov out of the way so he can take over.”

  “I trusted you,” Konstantin said, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.

  “Not very Russian of you, Konstantin. A career in the FSB and you trusted your superior officers? Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a comfortable cell in the basement, Konstantin. I want you well out of the way. I like you. I admire you. Who couldn’t? It’s as if you’re the last honest man in the FSB. But you’re too dangerous to just send home. I want you locked away while the game plays out, Konstantin. And when the new players are in charge, you can decide whether to continue fighting terror or retiring quietly. But first, you need to tell me where Dmitri Zukhov is. His father is very concerned.”

  Grechko had to stop the car along the side of the road twice to rest. Every pothole, every bump in the road, jarred his shoulder. The bottle of vodka was half-full, but he felt both feverish and chilled at the same time. Sweat soaked his shirt.

  Finally he pulled the car up to the fence outside the old facility, n
oticing that the damaged gate was being manned by four Red Hand carrying AK47s, a far more tight security presence than usual. One of them approached his window. “Mikhail Grechko,” he said. “I’m here to see Shos.”

  The soldier stepped back and spoke into a radio. After a moment he stepped forward and held up a cell phone. “Look at the camera, please. To verify who you are.”

  Grechko raised his gun and aimed at the man. “If you snap that photograph, you will be dead. No photographs. If Yakhov Shos has to walk out here and ID me himself, so be it. But no fucking photographs.”

  Eyes widening, the young soldier lowered his smart phone. He raised the radio to his lips and relayed the message. Then, staring at Grechko, he read off a brief description, including that one arm appeared to be in a sling.

  The soldier said, “Do you know where the warehouse is?”

  “No.”

  “Behind the main building. Go around to the right. There will be other guards.”

  Grechko nodded, slammed the car back into drive and wheeled around the grounds. And the young man had been correct—the grounds were under active patrol, dozens of soldiers walking the perimeter, others standing station at various corners of the building. He even saw several snipers on the roof.

  Whatever had damaged the front gate, Grechko thought, had scared Shos, and probably Zukhov as well. Events were moving quickly. The threads were knotting together.

  He rolled up to what had once been a school garage, a parking area large enough for dozens of school buses, the building itself large enough to house half a dozen of them for repairs and maintenance. Pulling the car around so it faced the front gate, the assassin shut down the car and slipped the gun and the bottle of vodka back into his coat pocket.

  Out of the car, he swayed on his feet. Finally, steadying himself, Grechko strode toward the garage. A guard stood at the door. “You are Grechko?”

  “Da.”

  “Identification?”

  Grechko just stared at him, which apparently unnerved the young soldier, who nodded and let him by. Stepping into the garage, Grechko was immediately struck by a wall of warmth. Overhead heaters blew hot air.

  No school buses, he noted. Two tanks. Three Vodniks. Yakhov Shos stood outside a small office. They met in front of one of the Vodniks. Shos looked paler than usual, his skin bone white, a sheen of sweat on his face. A reddish rash disappeared into the collar of his urban camo shirt.

  “Do you have the bomb prepared?” Grechko asked.

  Shos nodded. “What happened to your arm?”

  Grechko didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I also need a military uniform. Do you have credentials that can get me into Lubyanka?”

  With a grunt, Shos nodded. “In my office. They are for the army. You will be Colonel Ivan Semyonovich Vysotsky.”

  “The package?”

  “This way.”

  Shos led Grechko past the Vodniks toward the back of the garage structure. At the back was a workshop—toolboxes, tools lining the walls, benches. Two men in coveralls were sorting through a pile of guns, apparently cleaning and repair rifles and handguns.

  On one of the workbenches was a black attaché case. Shos gestured toward it. The red rash was on the back of his hand and disappeared into his sleeve. Grechko awkwardly clicked the latches on the attaché with one hand and raised the lid. Inside were packs of Semtex plastic explosives.

  “Twelve kilos,” Shos said. “Four separate packages of three kilos each. Individual detonators all linked to a single timer.” He gestured to the electronic timer. “Set it and go.”

  It was not quite what he has insisted upon, but he was beyond arguing. He would deal with the specifics himself. “Very good.” Grechko shut the lid, snapped the hasps, and hefted the attaché in his left hand. It was heavy. “The uniform and the credentials.”

  “In the office.”

  The office was small, a battered metal desk, two filing cabinets, two chairs. The green uniform of the Russian Interior Army hung from a coat rack. There was also the heavy green overcoat. Grechko carefully checked every detail to make sure the insignias and buttons and all appropriate rank were intact. Satisfied, he said, “I will need assistance changing clothing.”

  Shos narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been shot?”

  “Will you be assisting me, Yakhov?”

  Shos sneered. “I will call somebody. Wait here.”

  While he waited, Grechko sat down in the desk chair and shivered. He looked at the attaché case and considered the bomb. Some bomb tech with the Red Hand had armed the weapon with a timer.

  Grechko did not trust the Red Hand.

  A female soldier arrived. She wore camo pants. Short dark hair, long face, hazel eyes. Young. Pretty. She saluted.

  “What is your name?”

  “Innya.”

  “Innya. It’s your lucky day. I need to change clothing and as you can see, I am injured. I need your help.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Start with my coat, please.”

  She did as instructed. It was an amazingly difficult chore, actually, but Innya was efficient and matter-of-fact. Finally Grechko wore the uniform of a colonel in the Russian Army. “I will drape the jacket over my shoulders.”

  “Very dashing, sir.”

  He looked at her. “How old are you, Innya?”

  “Nineteen, sir.”

  “And why did you join the Red Hand?”

  “Sir?”

  He stared at her. She stared back. He liked her. Tougher than she looked. He repeated his question.

  “I was court-martialed and discharged.”

  “Why?”

  “I killed an officer.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “He tried to rape me.”

  “And Z has given you a second chance,” he said.

  She shrugged. “It was difficult to find work.”

  “I need two functional cellular phones. Can you do that for me?”

  Innya nodded.

  “Go.”

  She left. He walked into the garage, looking at the available tools, pocketing the few materials he would need. What he had wanted to tell Innya was to walk out the door, go to the gate and leave. No good would come to the Red Hand, no matter the outcome of General Zukhov’s plans. Z’s private army.

  The girl returned with two Nokia cell phones. He took them and placed them in the heavy coat’s pocket, along with the bottle of vodka and his pistol. “Thank you.”

  He stood up. She stood at attention. “Good luck … Colonel.”

  His smile was thin. “Spasiba.”

  29

  Kuts jabbed Konstantin in the back with the gun. “Keep walking.”

  Turning, Konstantin narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to shoot me here, Alek? Right here in Lubyanka? Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re going to shoot me.”

  A sharp jab with the palm of his hand into Konstantin’s chest staggered him. “This is not a game, Konstantin. If I have to kill you, I will. Cooperate and tomorrow you can decide whether you are with us or against us. The new rulers will need men with your passion and skill.”

  “You think you can trust me?”

  “Turn around and walk, Konstantin. We trust no one. I don’t trust you now and I won’t trust you tomorrow. That doesn’t mean you are not of use.”

  Konstantin searched Kuts’s face and decided that it was entirely possible he would be led to one of the infamous cells in the basement of Lubyanka and executed. He slowly turned and walked.

  An agent appeared from an office, holding a red folder marked Top Secret. He looked up and saw the two men. “What’s this?”

  Kuts said, “Kremlin business.”

  “But Konstantin—”

  “Agent Okecka, Agent Nikitinov is suspected of treason. He is being taken to interrogation. That is significantly more than you need to know. Go about your business.”

  The agent’s expression twisted in shock. He met Konstantin’s gaze, then looked down and walk
ed by.

  Kuts jabbed Konstantin in the back again. He leaned close and quietly, in his ear, hissed, “See, Konstantin? That’s all it—”

  Konstantin snapped his head backward. His skull slammed into Kuts’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Kuts staggered back, raising the gun.

  Hands flashing, Konstantin struck Kuts’s gun hand from two different directions. Kuts’s wrist snapped. Konstantin twisted, spun, taking the gun from his hand, placing torque on the wrist.

  Kuts screamed.

  Still holding the wrist, Konstantin changed direction. There was another snapping sound and Kuts’s elbow gave.

  Two agents appeared from doorways. On his knees, cradling his arm to his chest, Kuts screamed, “Get him! He’s a traitor!”

  The agents were slow to react. More faces appeared at doorways. One held a gun and raised it toward Konstantin. Raising Kuts’s gun, Konstantin fired. The agent disappeared back into the office.

  Konstantin plunged toward the stairs, his only thought to flee the building. He did not know who to trust now. There would be no talking his way out of this now. It was time to run.

  A flight down, an alarm blared. He increased his pace. A handful of people were filling the main floor entryway, looking puzzled. Konstantin shouted, “There’s an agent on the third floor with a bomb! He’s got a bomb!”

  To their credit, some headed up the stairs. Others headed for the exit. People shouted and shoved. Konstantin went with the flow. Within seconds he was out on Lubyanka Square, blending into a crowd of protesters, heading for his car.

  Grechko carefully placed the briefcase on the passenger seat and drove out of the compound. Once he was several miles away, he pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store, parking away from the other cars. He raised the lid of the briefcase and studied the Semtex and the timer. Carefully, he removed the timer and disconnected it from the detonators.

  He cautiously checked to make sure there were no other timing devices. There weren’t. It appeared the bomb was just as it appeared to be—twelve kilos of Semtex hooked to a digital timer.

  Nonetheless, he wasn’t wild about that. Checking the batteries on the two cell phones, he went about replacing the digital timer with improvised cell phone detonators using the tools and materials he had purloined from the garage of the Red Hand. He would be able set off the bomb from a safe distance by calling either phone.