The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  That is, if Arkhipov survived. Zukhov had hopes that Arkhipov would die in the Kremlin blast. If not, then perhaps Grechko would be willing to perform one more job, something like what he had done to Titov—something that would look like natural causes.

  His armored limo slowed. The driver honked on the horn, but nobody was moving out of the streets. It had started to snow, swirling flakes blown by a steady wind. Almost pretty, Zukhov thought.

  He wondered, briefly, what had become of Dmitri. What had become of Konstantin and Stillwater? When he had contacted Shos an hour earlier, his lieutenant had indicated that no one knew where Dmitri was. He told him that his man in the FSB, Kuts, was taking care of Konstantin, and that they thought Stillwater was holed up in the U.S. Embassy. Nobody had heard from Maximova and Shos couldn’t keep the worry from his voice.

  They were loose ends. Once he was in power, he would pressure the U.S. government to turn Stillwater over for crimes against the state, and Konstantin would be tried and executed as a traitor.

  His driver leaned on the horn again and nudged the car forward. Someone slammed a fist down on the hook. The driver honked again. The armored car lurched forward. A few people scattered. Several shouted and made obscene gestures.

  General Zukhov looked around at the crowd, and wondered about walking to Red Square. It could be a symbol of his relationship to the people. It could indicate that he was one of them. That he was so strong and powerful that he did not fear walking the streets of Moscow during this crisis.

  “Stop the car. I’m going to walk.”

  His driver spun his head. “You’re going to do what?!”

  “I will walk. It will attract the media. It will be something to remember.” He smiled. “Besides, we’ll never make it through this congestion without shutting down the streets.”

  “You need protection! Look at this crowd.”

  Zukhov made a heavy shrug. “Then abandon the vehicle and walk with me.”

  His driver looked frightened.

  “That is an order, Pasha.”

  Pasha slowly edged the car into a spot. “I will get out first, sir.”

  “Just keep an eye open.” Zukhov climbed out of the car, resplendent in his blue dress uniform. The uniform was covered with medals and ribbons. Even before Pasha could join him at his side, people in the crowd were staring.

  General Zukhov had an idea. Far more nimbly than his bulk or age would suggest, he climbed on top of the armored car and raised his hands. In a booming voice, he said, “I am Colonel General Valery Zukhov, head of the Moscow Military District.”

  Someone shouted, “So what?”

  “I will tell you what!” he shouted back, jabbing a hand toward the man who had tried to heckle him. “Do you think the government is keeping you safe? Do you think President Eltsin can protect you?”

  He saw many heads shake. Several people shouted, “No!”

  But Zukhov didn’t think he had the crowd in his pocket yet. “I can’t hear you!” he shouted. “Do you feel safe?”

  “No!”

  “Terrorists are attacking Russia. They are attacking Moscow and St. Petersburg. They are making our cities unsafe!”

  The crowd was warming up to him, he saw.

  “Do you feel safe?”

  “No!”

  “Do you want to be safe?”

  “Yes!” More shouts this time. More people gathering around the car and paying attention. To his satisfaction, people were holding up phones, photographing this moment, taking videos that would go online in seconds.

  He raised both hands in the air. “Comrades! Countrymen… My fellow Russians! We must take our country back!”

  Cheers and shouts.

  “Follow me to Red Square! We will demand our country back!”

  He leapt off the car and strutted down the street, the crowd surging along with him. Someone shouted, “Russia Without Eltsin! Russia Without Eltsin! Руссиа витхоут Елтсин! Руссиа витхоут Елтсин! Russia Without Eltsin! Russia Without Eltsin!”

  The crowd caught on. Within a block General Zukhov was marching at the head of a huge mob of Moscovites chanting, “Russia Without Eltsin! Russia Without Eltsin!” The media was eating it up.

  By the time Zukhov surged into Red Square, he estimated there were thousands of people all chanting. His soldiers cleared a path for him as he mounted the podium. Raising his hands, he shouted into the microphone, “Comrades! Countrymen! Russians…!”

  Yakhov Shos slouched into the chair in his office in the main building and rubbed his fingertips against his temples. An intense headache had taken up shop within his skull. He thought about Zoya Maximova. They were lovers. He didn’t suppose he loved her. But he had not heard from her. He did not believe she had deserted. He thought something had gone badly wrong. That she was arrested or dead.

  He did not mourn her. He was…

  Disappointed, perhaps. She was a damned fine lay and they had fun.

  There would be others.

  But there were few of the Red Hand who had her military skills. For the most part, the Red Hand were a bunch of kids and misfits—drunks and the unemployed who had nostalgia for their days in the army, or odd recruitees by General Zukhov who for one reason or another had been discharged by the military.

  He picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. There was, not unexpectedly, live news coverage of Red Square. They were excitedly showing video of a mob of protesters following General Zukhov down the street. There’s no stopping him now, Shos thought.

  He cocked his head. What was that sound?

  He thought he heard helicopters.

  And then he heard a burst of gunfire. Catapulting out of his chair, he grabbed an AK47 and ran out of the office.

  Derek was in the middle of the four-man team in the Kamov 226. It wasn’t a big helicopter, although it was big enough for a pilot and four heavily armed men. It had coaxial rotors and no tail rotor. Derek had flown in a lot of different choppers in some pretty hairy situations, but he’d never flown in one like this. The double rotors were a little freaky.

  As they angled in on the compound, he spotted snipers and guards and a fairly heavily armed presence. He would vastly have preferred to be on the ground doing a covert infiltration with night-vision goggles and camo, instead of flying in with a big bull’s-eye on his ass.

  Suddenly there were flashes in the darkness below.

  The driver shouted something in Russian, undoubtedly something along the lines of, “Shit, we’re taking fire,” and the chopper went into a steep, angled dive. Konstantin shouted in Russian, then to Derek said, “Be prepared to roll the second we land.”

  Derek merely nodded. He’d been in this place before. He knew what to do. He gripped his AK47 and concentrating on the job the second they landed.

  Suddenly the pilot started shouting. Simultaneously the chopper jinked hard right and all the men tumbled over each other in the back.

  An explosion rocked the air.

  Anti-aircraft fire.

  Derek felt as if he was in free fall, then the chopper slammed hard into the ground. Derek’s team scattered, firing toward their attackers. Derek rolled from the helicopter and bore right. The chopper was lifting off before Derek was out of the hatch.

  With a roar the helicopter turned and sped away. Another rocket burst. From over the far trees the attack helicopter appeared, the chatter of the machine gunner on the attack helicopter being heard clearly. But swarms of soldiers armed with AK47s and AN-94s were flooding out of the building.

  Not waiting for the team, Derek sprinted toward the garage, firing at anything that moved. Konstantin was off to his right. The other two men on his team, Sasha and Maks, were off to his left.

  Someone rushed out of the shadows. Derek cut him down and kept running. The attack helicopter was doing a good job of keeping most of the Red Hand busy on the back of the building, but he still had a sense of being horribly outnumbered.

  Out of
the corner of his eye he sensed movement from above. “Down!” he shouted, throwing himself to the pavement and rolling.

  A sniper on the roof fired, something big and powerful going chunk, chunk, chunk. Sasha, off to his left, screamed and went down.

  Konstantin lunged behind one of the few trees this close to the building and sprayed bullets toward the man on the roof.

  Taking advantage of the coverage, Derek lunged to his feet and raced toward the garage. He hit the small door hard with his shoulder. With a tearing sound the door exploded open.

  Crouching, Derek scanned the large space, AK47 up and ready.

  A tall, thin man with dark hair stood at the far end of the room. He held what looked like TV remote controls in each hand. Derek edged toward him, the sights of the AK47 aimed directly at the man’s chest.

  The man said something in Russian.

  “I don’t speak Russian,” he said. “Put your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

  Outside the garage Derek still heard gunfire. Neither Konstantin nor Maks had followed him in. He didn’t even know if they were still alive.

  “American?”

  “Put your damned hands up.”

  “Are you Derek Stillwater?”

  Derek kept moving.

  The man laughed, shaking his head. Derek closed the distance. He was now about twenty-five feet from where the man stood. Spread around them were crates. On the workbench in front of him were what Derek was pretty certain were bombs. He froze, re-considering what the man was holding in each hand.

  “I am Yakov Shos,” he said. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The Gekko was perhaps not as good as his reputation. Don’t come any closer.”

  Derek was now about a dozen feet away. Close enough to see a red rash along Shos’s neck.

  Derek heard a sound behind him. Konstantin spoke in Russian. Shos responded.

  “Derek,” Konstantin said. “We have a problem.”

  “I figured.”

  “He says he has two Soman gas bombs rigged to blow. All he has to do is push the buttons.”

  Derek took a step closer. Shos held his hands up. Derek saw that the man’s fingers were not pressed down. It wasn’t a dead-man’s switch.

  Small relief. If he shot Shos the man might clench his fists as he died. This close to two bombs, the Soman gas was the least of his problems. The shrapnel would kill him long before the gas did.

  “I need you to translate. And I want you to stay where you are.”

  Shos said, “My English is excellent.”

  “I can tell. But I don’t want any misunderstanding here.”

  Shos shrugged.

  “You have smallpox. One of your bombs leaked.” From the far side of the garage, Konstantin translated.

  Shos shrugged again. “I’ve been vaccinated.”

  Derek took a step closer. “It will kill you, anyway. Your scientists heated it up. If you get to a hospital fast enough, before the symptoms really kick in, and you get a booster vaccine and even some modern antivirals, you might be able to knock it back.”

  Konstantin was silent.

  Derek said, “Konstantin?”

  “Right here.”

  Derek risked a glance over his shoulder. Konstantin had halved the distance between them.

  “I thought I told you to stay at the door.”

  “I’m the Russian here. You’re just a guest.”

  Shos grinned. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be going to the hospital.”

  A massive explosion from outside rocked the building. Shos jerked his head. “The Mi-24 used their 80 millimeter.” He seemed to be considering something. Then he said. “If you let me free. If you let me get in one of the Patriots and drive out of here, the bombs are all yours.”

  Konstantin nodded.

  Keeping his hands in sight, Shos walked toward them. “Do not think it will go well for you, Konstantin Nikitinov, if General Zukhov takes charge.”

  Derek said softly, “Did you know about kidnapping my son? About kidnapping Lev to use against me?”

  Now only a yard away from Derek, Shos said, “Of course. And you took Dmitri. Very biblical. An eye for an eye. Grechko should have killed the boy. That’s what I would have done.”

  Derek shot him in the head. Shos collapsed to the ground, the remotes clattering from his lifeless hands.

  Turning, Derek saw Konstantin staring at him, face pale. Derek leaned down and picked up the remote controls and carefully removed the batteries from them.

  Konstantin said, “I’m glad he didn’t push the buttons.”

  “Me too.”

  31

  Alek Kuts pushed his way through the throngs of people in Lubyanka Square, holding his arm close to his chest. That bastard Konstantin had broken his wrist! And after escaping, no one had seen or heard from him. Kuts had sent a team out looking for him with orders to shoot on sight, but the city was in such an uproar, there weren’t many resources to go around. He didn’t suppose Konstantin could stay hidden forever. Once Zukhov was in power and things settled down, they would deal

  with Nikitinov.

  He pushed to within a dozen feet of the stage. Kuts watched General Zukhov mount the platform, thinking, All this planning to get to this point. All the intrigue and wheels within wheels.

  What he wanted to do was go have a doctor deal with his wrist. But he didn’t want to miss the event, history in the making.

  Standing on the platform in Lubyanka Square, General Zukhov raised his hands. “Comrades! Countrymen! Russians…!”

  The crowd cheered. Television cameras from international news agencies were aimed at him.

  “I am here to take our country back! I am here to make us safe!”

  More cheers.

  “Terrorists have been attacking us and President Eltsin has done nothing! The Duma has done nothing!”

  The crowd shouted in agreement.

  “As I speak, the Duma is voting to remove President Eltsin from office.” Some in the crowd cheered. Others seemed shocked, murmuring among themselves. Kuts wondered if it was true, or if this statement would propel such a vote.

  “Poslushajtye! Listen! As of this moment, the army is in charge under my control. I have declared martial law and will remain in control until the terrorists have been brought to justice. The streets will be made safe for Russians. You can walk with confidence.”

  And you will soon be the de facto president of Russia, Kuts thought.

  “Drug poznayotsya v byedye!” A friend is tested by hardship. “But I, General Valery Zukhov, am a true friend of Russia.” Staryi drug luchshye novykh dvukh! “And an old and true friend is better than two new ones!”

  The crowd roared.

  And then the bomb erupted beneath the platform.

  Grechko, putting the phone back in his pocket, climbed on board the Gulfstream he was hiring to fly him out of Russia. The pilot was waiting for him. Grechko only carried a briefcase that contained some cosmetics, a change of clothing, and documents. He kept similar briefcases in airport lockers and in bank safe deposit boxes in major cities around the world.

  He had collected the case, entered a restroom, changed out of his Russian military uniform and into an expensive suit and tie. Mikhail Grechko was gone. Now he was Antonio Leto, an Italian businessman. He had swept his hair back and used mousse to keep it in place, and glued a professional-quality mustache and goatee to his face.

  The pilot said, “Signore Leto. Are you ready?”

  The pilot’s Italian was atrocious, but Grechko’s was perfect. He nonetheless answered in Russian with a Florence accent. “Indeed. How soon before we depart?”

  “Thanks to your instructions, almost immediately.”

  “Thank you.”

  He found his seat in the well-appointed cabin and counted the minutes to take-off. True to his word, they were in the air in ten minutes, headed for Rome. Grechko, once he was certain the pilot could not hear him, took out a phone
and placed a call to a trusted associate, telling him to meet him at the Rome airport and to make arrangements for him to have surgery performed as quickly as possible by a private clinic.

  Once the arrangements were made, Grechko—now Signore Antonio Leto—leaned back in the seat and let the exhaustion and pain wash over him. In less than four hours he would be on the ground. And Mikhail Grechko would disappear.

  Derek and Konstantin checked to make sure the garage area was deserted. Finding no one, the two men examine the crates and boxes at one end of the structure. Derek studied the refrigerated container that held the smallpox bomblets. “How many were stolen from Novosibirsk?”

  “Ten.”

  “There are nine here.”

  “Da. There have been reports of smallpox in Dageston. They must have sold one.”

  Derek shot Konstantin a worried look. “Do you have people looking for it?”

  With a shrug, Konstantin said, “I’m operating, how do you Americans say it, off the reservation.”

  Konstantin leaned over the devices on the table. Bombs approximately the size of a microwave oven. His eyes narrowed. “Shos did not push a button when you shot him?”

  “No. And I disabled the devices.” Derek hurried over and looked at what Konstantin was examining. The two devices were IEDs loaded with Soman containers. Both of them had LED readouts. Both were lit up and counting down.

  1:49

  The seconds counted down.

  Konstantin said, “Can you disable them?”

  Derek took five precious seconds to decide that he couldn’t. He shook his head. “Evacuate everybody. And I mean everybody! Let’s go. Now!”

  He turned on his heels and sprinted for the door. Konstantin was right behind him, shouting into his radio.

  A countdown clock was running in his head as he ran. Konstantin was running toward the gate. Derek skidding toward one of the Patriots, lunged through the door and saw that a key was in the ignition. He jabbed it to life, and peeled away, jerking to a stop next to Konstantin, who was helping Maks to his feet. The two men tumbled into the back of the vehicle.