He described his visit to Sophia’s grave and told her about the closure he had managed to find. “After the funeral, I felt there were things you and I had to say to each other, but never did. We just walked away from each other.”
Randi stared at him. “I know what you mean. But back then, a part of me still blamed you for what had happened to Sophia. It took me a long time to work through that.”
“Do you still blame me?”
“No. There was nothing you could have done to help her. You didn’t know about Tremont and his killers, or that Sophia was a threat to them.”
“I needed to hear you say that,” Smith told her.
Randi looked at the framed photo on her desk of her and Sophia in Santa Barbara before the horror. Although over a year had passed, Randi had not been able to forgive herself for not having been there when her sister had needed her most. While Sophia lay dying in that hospital bed, Randi had been thousands of miles away, working deep undercover in Iraq, helping the resistance to Saddam Hussein’s regime. She had not learned how or why Sophia had been murdered until weeks later, when Jon Smith had materialized in Baghdad like some dark djinn.
Amid the rubble of her grief, Randi had managed to find unbroken vessels she could cling to. But her feelings for Smith remained ambivalent. She was grateful that he had been with Sophia in her last moments, that she had not died alone. Yet as she became more and more entangled in the web that was Hades she couldn’t help but wonder if Smith could somehow have prevented her sister’s murder. There too, the issue had been maddenly unclear. She knew that Smith had loved Sophia deeply and would never have knowingly put her in harm’s way. Yet, when she stood at her sister’s grave, she still believed that he could have done something to save her.
Randi brushed away that last thought and turned to Smith.
“It’ll take a little while to set up the meeting with Kirov. Would you like to meet for a drink later?”
“Very much.”
They settled on the lounge in the Sheraton, after Randi had closed up the office.
“What exactly is Bay Digital?” Smith asked. “And what do you do here?”
“You mean the people who sent you didn’t mention that?” Randi smiled. “Jon, I’m shocked. I happen to be the Moscow office manager of a very successful venture-capital firm looking to invest in promising Russian high-tech startups.”
“Except the funding doesn’t come from private investors or hedge funds,” Smith said.
“Be that as it may, anyone with money can open all doors in Russia. I have contacts that range from the Kremlin, through the army, and even into the Russian mafia.”
“I always said you had friends in low places. And is there such a thing as high-tech in this country?”
“Better believe it. The Russians don’t have our equipment, but give them the right tools and they shine.” She touched his arm. “It really is good to see you again, Jon—whatever your reasons for being here. Is there anything you need right now?”
Smith pictured Danko’s widow and child. “Tell me what Russians bring when they call on a woman who’s just lost her husband—and doesn’t know it yet.”
Chapter 8
At 7:36 A.M. Houston time, Dr. Adam Treloar boarded a British Airways flight for its nonstop run over the Pole to London’s Heathrow Airport. Upon arrival, he was escorted to the transit lounge where, as a first-class passenger, he availed himself of the services of a masseuse. After a quick shower, Treloar picked up his freshly pressed suit from a valet and headed for gate sixty-eight, where he was shown into the forward cabin of another BA flight, this one to Moscow. Twenty-eight hours after he had started his journey, Treloar cleared Russian customs and immigration without incident.
Treloar adhered strictly to the itinerary that he and Reed had worked out. After a taxi dropped him off at the new Hotel Nikko across the river from the Kremlin, Treloar registered, then gave the porter an extravagant tip to bring the bags up to his room. Next, he exited the hotel and hailed another taxi, which took him to the cemetery on Mychalczuk Prospekt. The old woman selling flowers by the entrance was astonished to receive twenty American dollars for a bouquet of wilted daisies and sunflowers. Treloar proceeded to a stretch of relatively new graves laid out under a stand of birch trees. He placed the flowers at the foot of a distinctive Orthodox cross that commemorated the final resting place of his mother, Helen Treloar, née Helena Sviatoslava Bunin.
FBI background investigators had duly noted that Treloar’s mother had been born in Russia when Treloar had applied for the post of chief medical officer. But no red flags went up. Competing for medical talent against the private sector, NASA was only too happy to land an expert like Adam Treloar, who came to the agency after fifteen years with Bauer-Zermatt A.G. No one asked why Treloar had given up his seniority at such a prestigious firm or why he had accepted a 20 percent pay cut. Instead, the space agency had handed over Treloar’s impeccable credentials and glowing references and told the Bureau to fast-track the background check.
With the end of the Cold War, travel to Russia had become easier than ever. Thousands of Americans went to visit relatives whom, in many cases, they had seen only in photographs. Adam Treloar went back, too, to visit his mother after her divorce and return to her native Moscow. For the next three years, he flew in every spring to spend a week with her.
Two years ago, Treloar had informed his superiors at NASA that his mother had terminal cancer. They commiserated and told him he could have as much personal leave as he needed. The dutiful son increased his visits to three a year. Then, last fall, when Helena Bunin at last succumbed, he went back for an entire month, ostensibly to settle her affairs.
Treloar was certain that the FBI was keeping track of his visits to Moscow. But he also knew that, like any bureaucracy, it was content as long as it recognized a pattern, and that pattern did not change. Over the years, Treloar had created just such a pattern, altering it only when he had a foolproof reason to do so. Since this was the six-month anniversary of his mother’s death, it would have seemed out of place if he hadn’t gone to visit her grave.
During the taxi ride back to his hotel, Treloar reviewed what he had done. The cabdriver from the airport, the porter at the hotel, the old woman at the cemetery, the other cabdrivers—all would remember him because of the generous tips. If anyone came checking, the pattern of his visit was clear. Now it would seem natural to rest for a few days in Moscow before heading back. Except that the NASA physician had more on his agenda than sightseeing.
Treloar retired to his room and slept for several hours. By the time he awoke, darkness had descended over the city. He showered, shaved, put on a fresh suit, and, bundled up in a warm overcoat, went out into the night.
The thoughts came unbidden as he walked. As much as they rankled him, he could never make them go away. So he surrendered, allowing them to wash over him, breathing shallowly until they were spent.
Adam Treloar believed himself to be marked as Cain had been marked. He was cursed by terrible desires that he could neither control nor escape from. They were the reason why he had bargained away his career at Bauer-Zermatt.
In another lifetime, Treloar had been the star of Bauer-Zermatt’s virology division, preening in the respect of his peers and the adulation of his subordinates—one subordinate in particular, a sloe-eyed fawn so beautiful that Treloar had found the temptation irresistible. But the fawn had turned out to be a goat, tethered to one of Bauer-Zermatt’s competitors. The goat was meant to snare the unwary suitor, compromise him, and force him to bend to the competitor’s will.
Treloar had never seen the trap; he’d only had eyes for the fawn. But he saw plenty, later, when men arrived at his apartment and played sex tapes in which he had a starring role. They offered a cold choice: exposure or cooperation. Because of the proprietary nature of Bauer-Zermatt’s research, every employee had to sign a strictly worded contract whose provisions included a morals clause. Treloar’s tormenters made a
point of reminding him about that as they replayed the video. They drove him to face the fact that his options were few: hand over information about the company’s research, or face exposure. Of course, exposure would not be the end of it. Public branding as a deviant would follow. Then, after all the publicity, the civil—and probably criminal—charges, it would be futile for him to try to find another job anywhere in the medical research community.
Treloar was given forty-eight hours to consider his choices. He wasted the first twenty-four doing just that. Then, as he looked into a future that held nothing but ruins, he realized that his blackmailers had overreached: they had placed him in a position where he had nothing to lose by fighting back.
By virtue of his seniority at Bauer-Zermatt, Treloar was able to secure a meeting with Dr. Karl Bauer himself. In the elegant surroundings of Bauer’s Zurich office, he laid out his trespasses and the way in which he was being blackmailed. He offered to make amends any way he could.
To Treloar’s surprise, Bauer seemed nonplussed at the turn of events that had befallen his wayward employee. He listened without comment, then instructed Treloar to come back the next morning.
To this day, Treloar had no idea what had transpired behind the scenes. The following morning, when he appeared before Bauer, he was told that he would never hear from the blackmailers again. Evidence of his peccadilloes was no longer in the public domain. There would be no repercussions—ever.
But there would be recompense. Bauer informed Treloar that in return for saving his future in the medical research community, Treloar would soon leave the company. An employment offer would arrive from NASA; he would accept it. His colleagues would be told that he was seizing the chance to do the kind of research he could never be involved in if he stayed at Bauer-Zermatt. Once he arrived at NASA, he would place himself at the disposal of Dr. Dylan Reed. Reed would be his guide and mentor, and Treloar would obey him without question.
Treloar recalled the cold, precise way in which Bauer had handed down his edict. He remembered the flash of anger, then the amusement in Bauer’s eyes when Treloar had timorously asked what kind of research he would be doing at NASA.
“Your work will be of secondary concern,” Bauer had told him. “It is your connection to your mother, to Russia, that interests me. You will be seeing her on a regular basis, I think.”
Treloar shouldered his way against the wind as he turned away from the bright lights of Gorky Square and into the dark streets that led into the Sadovaya District. The bars became seedier, the homeless and the drunks more aggressive. But this was not Treloar’s first visit to Sadovaya, and he was not afraid.
Half a block away, he saw the familiar flashing neon sign: KROKODIL. A moment later, he rapped on the heavy door and waited for the Judas hole to open. A pair of black, suspicious eyes examined him, then the bolt was released and the door opened. On his way in, Treloar gave the giant Mongolian bouncer a twenty-dollar bill for the cover charge.
Shrugging off his coat, Treloar felt the last of his thoughts dissolve beneath the hot lights and the screaming music. Faces turned his way, eyes impressed by his Western suit. Gyrating bodies bumped him, more by design than by accident. The manager, a thin, ferretlike creature, hurried over to greet his foreign customer. Within seconds, Treloar had a glass of vodka in his hand and was being escorted along the edge of the dance floor to a private area of velvet-covered couches and soft ottomans.
He sighed as he relaxed among the cushions. The warmth of the liquor made his fingertips tingle.
“Shall I fetch you a sample?” the ferret whispered.
Treloar nodded happily. To pass the time, he closed his eyes and let the music roar through him. He stirred when something soft grazed his cheek.
Standing in front of him were two blond-haired boys, their eyes a perfect blue, their complexions flawless. They could not have been more than ten years old.
“Twins?”
The ferret nodded. “And better, virgins.”
Treloar groaned.
“But they are very expensive,” the ferret warned him.
“Never mind that,” Treloar said hoarsely. “Bring us some zakuski. And soft drinks for my angels.”
He patted the cushions on either side of him. “Come to me, my angels. Give me a taste of heaven….”
Six kilometers from the Krokodil are the three high-rises known collectively as Dzerzhinsky Square. Until the early 1990s, it had been the headquarters of the communist KGB; after democratization, the complex was taken over by the newly formed Russian Federal Security Service.
Major-general Oleg Kirov, hands behind his back, stood in front of the windows of his fifteenth-floor office, looking out at the Moscow skyline.
“The Americans are coming,” he murmured.
“What did you say, dusha?”
Kirov heard the tap of heels on hardwood, felt slender fingers slide across his chest, inhaled the warm, sweet perfume borne on the words. He turned and took the beautiful brunette into his arms, kissing her hungrily. His passion was returned as he felt her tongue teasing his, her hands slipping to his belt, then lower.
Kirov pulled back, gazing into the provocative dark eyes that tantalized him.
“I wish I could,” he said softly.
Lieutenant Lara Telegin, Kirov’s aide-de-camp, stood with arms akimbo, surveying her lover. Even in the drab military uniform she looked like a runway model.
“You promised me dinner tonight,” she pouted.
Kirov couldn’t help but smile. Lara Telegin had graduated at the top of her class at the Frunze military academy. She was an expert marksman; the same hands that caressed him could take his life in a matter of seconds. Yet she could be as shameless and provocative as she was professional.
Kirov sighed. Two women in one body. Sometimes he wasn’t sure which was the real one. But he would enjoy them both for as long as he could. At thirty, Lara was just beginning her career. Inevitably she would move on to other posts, and finally a command of her own. Kirov, twenty years her senior, would go from being her lover to her godfather—or, as the Americans liked to say, a “rabbi” who would look after the interests of his favorite.
“You didn’t tell me about the American,” Lara said, all business now. “Which one is it? We get so many these days.”
“I didn’t tell you because you were gone all day and I had no one to help me with this infernal paperwork,” Kirov grumbled. He handed her a computer printout.
“Dr. Jon Smith,” she read. “How very common.” She frowned. “USAMRIID?”
“Our Dr. Smith is anything but common,” Kirov said dryly. “I met with him when he was stationed at Fort Detrick.”
“‘Was’? I thought he still is.”
“According to Randi Russell, he still has an association with USAMRIID but is on indefinite leave. She called to ask if I would see him.”
“Randi Russell…” Lara let the name hang.
Kirov smiled. “No need to get catty.”
“I only become catty when there’s good reason,” Lara replied tartly. “So she’s paving the way for Smith…who, it says here, was engaged to her sister.”
Kirov nodded. “She died in the Hades horror.”
“And would Russell—whom we both suspect operates a CIA front—vouch for him? Are the two of them running some kind of operation? What’s going on, dusha?”
“I think that the Americans have a problem,” Kirov said heavily. “Either we’re part of it or they need our help. In any event, we will find out soon enough. You and I will be seeing Smith tonight.”
In the waning afternoon Smith stepped out of the apartment block on Ulitsa Markovo. He turned his collar against the wind and stared up at the grim concrete face of the building. Somewhere within the anonymous windows on the twentieth floor Katrina Danko would be attending to the heartbreaking task of telling her six-year-old daughter, Olga, that she would never see her father again.
To Smith, the task of calling on the relatives of
the dead was a task that pained him like no other. Like all wives and mothers, Katrina had known why he was here from the minute she opened the door and laid eyes on him. But she had iron in her spine. She had refused to surrender to tears, asking Smith how Yuri Danko had died and whether he had suffered. Smith told her as much of the truth as he could, then said that arrangements had already been made to fly Danko’s remains to Moscow as soon as the Venetian authorities released them.
“He talked a great deal about you, Mr. Smith,” Katrina had told him. “He said that you were a good man. I see that is true.”
“I wish I could tell you more,” Smith said sincerely.
“What good would that do?” Katrina asked. “I knew the kind of work Yuri was involved in—the secrecy, the silences. But he did it because he loved his country. He was proud of his service. All I ask is that his death not be in vain.”
“I can promise you it won’t be.”
Smith walked back to his hotel and spent the next hour lost in thought. Seeing Danko’s family added a personal sense of urgency to his mission. Of course he would make sure that Katrina and her daughter were well provided for. But that wasn’t enough. Now more than ever he needed to know who had killed Danko, and why. He wanted to be able to look his widow in the eye and say, no, the man you loved did not die in vain.
As night descended, Smith made his way to the lobby bar. Randi, wearing a navy blue power suit, was already waiting for him.
“You look pale, Jon,” she said quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for meeting me.”
They ordered pepper-flavored vodka and a plate of zakuski—pickled mushrooms, herring, and other snacks. After the waitress withdrew, Randi raised her glass.
“To absent friends.”
Smith echoed her toast.
“I spoke with Kirov,” Randi said, and gave him the details on the upcoming meeting. She glanced at her watch. “You’ll have to get going. Is there anything else I can do?”
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