The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  “Sasha?”

  “Dead. Go. Faster.”

  He pressed his foot to the floor. People dodged out of the way. Gunfire chattered off to their right.

  “Misha?”

  “All our teams are on their way—”

  Behind them the garage erupted into a giant fireball. A second later the Patriot burst through the gate and raced away.

  They regrouped at the roadhouse. There were three men missing, believed dead. There were some minor wounds. Overall, Misha and Konstantin felt it was successful. Misha told his people to go home, to say nothing. He would take responsibility for recovering the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  One by one the men left. Derek was not entirely sure who these men were, what their allegiance to Misha Nikitinov was. Some sort of Russian Air Force Special Forces group? Or group of Russian airmen who had some sort of personal allegiance to Misha?

  After a while, it was just Misha, Konstantin and himself. Derek had been leaning forward in a chair, elbows on his knees, studying his hands, thinking. Konstantin sat next to him.

  “Okay?”

  “There’s a missing smallpox container. There are a couple cases of smallpox that have been reported in Dagestan. I looked at a map, Konstantin. That’s the Caspian Sea. Just a short distance down the road is Iran.”

  Konstantin rested a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “We can’t do everything, my friend.”

  Misha was listening to the conversation. “Who’s working on it? Someone in FSB? Somebody with your State Department?”

  “CIA,” Derek said. “I know that much.”

  Misha frowned. He abruptly stood up. “I might be able to help.”

  Derek looked up. “How?”

  Misha held out a hand. “You know too much already. Thanks for your help.” He nodded at his brother and strode toward the door.

  Derek’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He saw that it was Erica Kirov. Reluctantly he answered it.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just out having a drink,” he said, rolling his eyes at Konstantin. “What’s up?”

  “You are so full of shit, Stillwater. Have you heard?”

  “No. What?”

  She told him that there had been a terrorist explosion on Red Square. It had killed General Valery Zukhov. He’d been in the process of calling for the instatement of martial law and insisting that President Eltsin step down.

  It took a few seconds for that to settle in. “Other people hurt?”

  “Oh yeah. Tons. There are a lot of rumors that it was Eltsin or even Archipov that were behind it, that they saw Zukhov as a threat and had him assassinated.”

  “Huh.”

  “There have also been reports of a major explosion north of Moscow.”

  “Busy night.”

  Erica was silent for a moment. “Where are you again?”

  “I’ll be back to the embassy in a little while. We’ll talk then.”

  “What can you tell me about this event north of Moscow, Derek?”

  “Nothing. I can tell you nothing. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

  He clicked off the phone and looked at Konstantin. He told him what Kirov had related. Konstantin’s face grew pale. He rubbed at his beard with both hands. “It’s possible Eltsin or Arkhipov might be behind it. But I doubt if we would ever find proof.”

  Derek frowned. “I could really use some sleep.”

  “Me too.”

  They gazed at each other for a long knowing moment. Derek said, “Are you going to be okay? They still think you’re a traitor.”

  “Yes, but interestingly enough, I was in the company of a dozen loyal Russian Air Force officers when Zukhov was killed. And…”

  Derek cocked an eyebrow in question.

  Konstantin shrugged. “This is Russia.”

  Ali Minu Kordestani was sitting in the galley of a small trawler on the Caspian Sea drinking coffee. The trawler was taking a shipment of electronics and other materials from Makhachkala, Dagestan, which it would deliver to Bandar-e Anzali, a port in Iran. There were sanctions against Iran’s shipping and all travel to the ports were watched. Ali Minu Kordestani understood that. They were taking their time. They did not plan on outracing anyone. His approach to smuggling was different—he didn’t buy a cigarette boat and try to outrun the military. Their cargo was innocuous, clearly registered, their paperwork in order.

  The items he smuggled were highly specialized and came at a very high price.

  Ali Minu Kordestani was not aware of a number of swift and high-level phone calls and communications that occurred in the last several hours, initiated by Colonel Misha Nikitinov with the Russian Air Force. The first call went out to Nikitinov’s closest associate, who was a colonel in Air Force Intelligence. Misha explained the problem and indicated it was a top-level security issue and they might need to coordinate with other officials.

  Misha’s friend listened carefully and told him he would get back to him shortly. He did, in nineteen minutes. By that time Misha was halfway to his office in the Air Force Base in Zarya, north of Moscow. He was put in touch with someone with the FSB. By the time Misha made it to his office, his adjutant was waiting for him along with his friend in Intelligence.

  The FSB agent had made contact immediately with someone they knew with the U.S. Embassy, who relayed the information quickly to a CIA staffer at the embassy, who immediately contacted CIA headquarters in Langley.

  It was an unusual bit of cooperation, but all the players involved—for a change—seemed to understand the desirability of not letting anyone in Iran get hold of weaponized smallpox. Between the two governments and four intelligence agencies—Russian Air Force Intelligence, the FSB, the CIA and the U.S. State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research—the name of the Iranian trawler and its general location was identified. It was then routed to one more U.S. intelligence agency, the U.S.’s National Reconnaissance Office, which oversaw all spy satellites.

  The NRO quickly analyzed the information given to them and identified the location of the trawler in question. The information was then fed back to Colonel Misha Nikitinov, who then contacted his superiors in the Air Force.

  If any historians ever heard about it, they would be astonished. It was doubtful any historians would ever heard of it.

  Derek and Konstantin were unaware of Misha’s activities. Getting to his feet, Derek said, “I need a lift back to my car. We left it at the bar.”

  And so the two exhausted men drove back toward central Moscow. They were just approaching the ring roads when Konstantin looked nervously in his rear-view mirror. Derek had been dozing in the passenger seat, leaning against the doorframe. “We have a problem.”

  Derek shuddered awake and glanced over his shoulder. Four vehicles had blocked in their car. Two of them were local police cars, lights flashing. Two were black Mercedes sedans. Shooting Konstantin a questioning look, he said, “Plan?”

  “Surrender peacefully. In your case, demand they call your embassy and hope you don’t disappear into Lubyanka.”

  So it’s come to this, Derek thought. He considered the handguns he carried, then decided not to push his luck. He took out the guns and stuffed them under the passenger seat as Konstantin pulled to a halt. Taking a page from the American playbook, he put his hands flat on the dashboard and waited. Konstantin, seeing his posture, kept his hands on the steering wheel in plain sight.

  “An American tradition?” Konstantin asked.

  “A good idea when dealing with nervous law enforcement.”

  “Da,” Konstantin said, nodding his head.

  Four men in long black leather coats emerged from the Mercedes Benzes. They all carried machine pistols and approached carefully and from different directions. Konstantin rolled down the windows and put his hands back on the steering wheel.

  The agent closest to Konstantin leaned down, but kept his machine pistol aimed inside the vehicle. Derek identified it as a Steyr TMP and hoped that they were goi
ng to be arrested rather than gunned down on the roadside. The road they were on was lit up in neon. The only one he recognized was a McDonald’s with the golden arches.

  The lead agent spat out a torrent of Russian. Konstantin responded, then to Derek, translated, “He wants our identification. I suggest you make no sudden movements.”

  Keeping one hand on the dash, Derek retrieved his wallet and diplomatic identification. He passed it to Konstantin, who passed it to the agent.

  The agent had red hair and an angular, bony face. It was an ugly face, Derek thought, a brutal face. The man’s hands were large and knuckly and had fine red hair on their backs. Looking through Derek’s credentials, he leaned down to study Derek. He said something to Konstantin, who responded in Russian, but didn’t bother to translate for Derek. Konstantin suddenly seemed nervous.

  “What is it?” Derek asked. “Who are these guys? FSB?”

  Konstantin hesitated. “No. SBP.”

  “Who?”

  The agent interrupted.

  “He wants us to get out of the car. Carefully.”

  The door on Derek’s side opened. Keeping his hands up, he climbed out of the car, standing in a pile of blackened slush on the roadside. The guard on his side looked like his mother had been a gorilla. Clearly a bodybuilder, he looked like he ate children for breakfast. Dark eyes above high cheekbones, a cleft chin, black hair, massive shoulders. The Steyr machine pistol looked like a toy in his ham-sized hands. He spun Derek around and pushed him against the car.

  Konstantin, on the other side, was being treated the same way. Konstantin said, “They’re going to search us. Hands on the car, feet wide.”

  Derek assumed the position. The gorilla agent was a pro, kicking Derek’s legs wide, pressing his own left foot inside Derek’s left to keep him off-balance. The man pocketed his machine pistol and expertly and thoroughly frisked him. They took his wallet and his phone. They left the ushanka on his head. He was glad for it. Then he roughly yanked Derek’s hands behind his back and slapped plasti-cuffs on his wrist, pushing him toward one of the cars.

  Much to his dismay, Konstantin was being led to the other vehicle.

  “Konstantin!” he shouted. “Who are these people? Who’s SBP?”

  Just before Konstantin was flung into the back of the Mercedes, he called out, “The Presidential Security Service. They’re President Eltsin’s bodyguards.”

  Then Derek found himself in the back of the Mercedes, hands cuffed behind him. He thought, Here we go again.

  32

  As they drove toward the heart of Moscow, Derek got to see first-hand how the government and the military had cracked down on the city. The streets were now almost deserted except for armed soldiers, whoh were at nearly every corner.

  “I have diplomatic credentials,” Derek said. “I want to contact the U.S. Embassy.”

  The two agents ignored him. He tried it once more, but not even a meaningful glance passed between the two men. Derek shrugged. It wasn’t that he wasn’t nervous or even scared. He was. But he had to stay calm and wait for opportunities and see how things developed.

  They drove into an underground parking structure near the Kremlin after passing swiftly through a guardpost. He was hauled out of the car and shoved into an elevator. Konstantin was nowhere to be seen.

  Up several floors, then out of the elevator, down a hallway and into a small room. The room held a table and chairs. Derek recognized it as an interrogation room and looked around for a camera, but didn’t find one. He assumed it was there somewhere.

  “I want to call the U.S. Embassy.”

  In heavily accented English the agent said, “Stay here.” The door closed and he was left alone.

  His hands were still cuffed behind his back. He hadn’t bothered to sit down yet, so he backed up to the door and tested the knob. Locked.

  Inside the building, he was now too warm to be wearing the heavy leather jacket and the fur hat. But there wasn’t a lot he could do about it with his hands cuffed behind his back. Derek sat down in one of the chairs and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to slouch in the chair, his legs propped against the table legs.

  He closed his eyes.

  And fell asleep.

  It could have been minutes, but probably not more than an hour. The door opened, waking Derek. In walked a tall, silver-haired Russian in an elegant blue suit. His shirt was snowy white. His tie was silk and a muted red. Derek couldn’t guess his age. The silver hair made him look older, but his face was relatively unlined and he moved with athletic smoothness. He carried a brown leather folder in one long-fingered hand.

  “I’m Dr. Derek Stillwater,” Derek said, sitting up a little. “I’m with the United States Department of State. I insist that you allow me to contact the U.S. Embassy.”

  “I know who you are, Dr. Stillwater,” the man said. “Stand up, please.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can free your hands.”

  Derek considered the silver-haired man for a moment, then stood up, his knees and back protesting. Turning, he held his hands awkwardly toward the Russian. He heard a snick of a blade, then his wrists were freed. He turned, rubbing his wrists, which were all pins-and-needles.

  “I’m with the United—”

  The Russian waved his hand. “Yes, I know who you are, Dr. Stillwater. The hero of the G8, formerly with the U.S. Army, then the Central Intelligence Agency, then the United Nations and World Health Organization. You taught for a while at Annapolis. Then after 9/11 you joined the newly formed Department of Homeland Security as a troubleshooter. You are currently in Russia, supposedly on personal travel, but were attached to the State Department, although I wonder if Secretary Mandelevo would like to disavow that connection right about now.” His English was excellent with almost no Russian accent. If anything, Derek reflected, the man’s accent almost sounded like he’d learned his English in New York City or maybe Boston.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Sergei Gulin.”

  “And you are FSB?”

  A hard smile appeared on Gulin’s face. He shook his head. “I am an advisor to President Eltsin. Please. Have a seat. Would you care for coffee? Or tea?”

  “Coffee would be excellent. I’d like to contact the embassy.”

  “We need to speak first.” He did not get up from the chair. Sergei Gulin continued to study him.

  A moment later the door opened and a uniformed guard appeared with a tray carrying a carafe, two mugs, sugar and cream.

  Derek took off the ushanka and his coat and sat at the table. He reached for the coffee, but Gulin picked up the carafe and poured for him. Gulin sat down and said, “Ushankas are a little bit out of style at the moment. How do you like it?”

  “It’s sort of a gift,” he said.

  “From your son, perhaps?”

  Derek felt a jolt. This man sure knew a lot about him. He said, “Where is Konstantin Nikitinov?”

  Gulin poured his own coffee and took a sip, black. He set the mug down and said, “That is of no concern to you at the moment. He is being debriefed. You, however, are a different sort of problem.”

  “No problem at all. Return my wallet and phone, have someone drop me off at the embassy, and I’ll head back to the U.S. as soon as I can.”

  Gulin nodded. “Yes. It could be as simple as that, I suppose. But what of Lev?”

  Derek did not move. Slowly he said, “We haven’t worked that out yet. I haven’t had a chance to speak with his mother.”

  “It is quite surprising to me that she was able to continue her career with the FSB after her affair with you. But then again, she is an extraordinary agent and has been very valuable to the Russian Federation. And her actions at the G8 Summit, along with yours, did elevate her profile.”

  Derek waited. He sipped the coffee, which was very good. The warmth and caffeine flooded through him.

  Gulin opened the leather folio and withdrew a photograph, which he passed to Derek
. “Do you know this man?”

  Derek studied the photograph. It looked like it was taken from a surveillance photograph, possibly on Red Square or Lubyanka Square. Frankly, Derek couldn’t keep all of Moscow’s squares straight. In the photograph was a man in a Russian military uniform. His coat was slung over his shoulders and he carried a briefcase in one hand. The angle wasn’t very good, but it appeared that the other arm might have been in a sling.

  Derek thought quickly and carefully. “I know him as Mikhail Grechko, although I don’t believe that’s his real name.”

  With a nod, Gulin retrieved the photograph. He paused for a moment, seemed to think, then slid another photograph toward Derek. In this one he saw another man in a Russian military uniform standing on a podium. There appeared to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of people surrounding him. He was speaking into a bouquet of microphones, hands raised, expression animated. He had a round, fleshy face, striking eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him,” Derek said.

  “You are certain?”

  “I’ve never met him, but maybe I saw him on TV.” He wanted to say, sometimes all you Russians look alike, but figured it wouldn’t go over that well. But there was something sort of classic Cold War Soviet about the man’s looks. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, all the Russian leaders had seemed to have that same look—well-fed, thuggish, smug.

  “That is General Valery Zukhov.”

  Derek nodded. “Yes. Perhaps I saw him on TV. Wasn’t he pushing for martial law?”

  “He was trying to overthrow the government,” Gulin said. “You are certain you have not met him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And this man?”

  He passed Derek a photograph of the general’s son, Dmitri Zukhov. Derek carefully kept his expression neutral. He shook his head. “No. Who is that?”

  “You are sure you have not seen this man?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”