No, it was a pre-planned attack. Zeldin’s involvement disgusted Malkovich.
Vladlen Zeldin spoke in a measured, condescending tone.
“Of all people, Eduard, you should be aware that the Soviet nuclear program owed its success much less to physicists than it did to spies. Scientists couldn’t have built the bomb without the theft of atomic secrets from the West, hence it was the NKVD chief, Beria, who was in charge of the Soviet nuclear program. A man of my rank is always involved in espionage, not research. Shame that true scientists like you must take the fall, but there’s no way around it.”
“You’re stealing the nuclear explosive device,” Malkovich blurted. It was more statement than question.
“I knew from the start that you’d object to it, so your team had to be eliminated. Besides, it’s the North Koreans stealing it. At least, everything should point to them in the event of a blowback. Plausible deniability requires maximum carnage. I’m sorry I had to sacrifice you. Rest assured, you’re dying for a great cause.”
Malkovich turned around to see the three assailants closing in on him. The ear-flaps of their winter hats partially concealed their faces, but they looked Asian. One of the North Koreans trained his AK at Malkovich and it spat a hot burst of slugs. Searing pain bored through his abdomen. Gasping, he collapsed over the threshold of the Control Center. His blood pooled on the icy ground. Indeed, he was dying.
He had never envisaged such a fate for himself. Mentally, he’d accepted the professional risk of exposure to radiation, perhaps even a lethal dose, though he never dwelled on such a possibility. But this? Collateral damage in a false-flag operation. It was a sick joke, but he wasn’t laughing.
He pressed his hands against the punctures in a vain attempt to stop the squirting blood. His vision clouded.
“Finish him off,” Zeldin ordered.
Another volley blasted, only this time it didn’t hit Malkovich.
Vladlen Zeldin crashed down next to him, shot dead, off to meet the God he’d supposedly beaten. Zeldin’s face froze in a death mask of surprised horror. Having played his role in the conspiracy, he’d become expendable. The joke was on him, after all.
Malkovich’s mouth twisted into a pained smirk just as bullets ripped his throat, blood gurgling.
Neither of them had started the day expecting to die at the hands of North Korean killers.
The last thing Eduard Malkovich ever heard was the thumping of helicopter rotors as the big Mi-8 lifted off, silhouetted in the sky by the distant burn of the gas blowout. Onboard, the transport chopper carried a deadly group of North Korean passengers and a 20-kiloton nuclear cargo. The corpses left behind marked the start of a blood-drenched race across the Siberian wasteland.
2
The man exiting the school building wore a navy-colored wool overcoat and a matching fedora hat. Tall and wiry, he carried an air of dignity about him, his movements filled with poise. With a neatly-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, he appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. His dark eyes were constantly alert.
“Excuse me, are you Yakov Orlovsky?”
“At your service. How may I help you, young man?”
“My name is Constantine Sokolov. I believe we have a mutual friend—Ilia.”
“Oh yes, I remember. Father Ilia spoke highly of you when we last met a couple of years ago.”
They walked together down Prechistenka, a sixteenth-century street which linked the Novodevichy Convent with the Kremlin. The façades of historical houses still lining the street bore traces of a bygone era, evoking memories of the eradicated Russian aristocracy. Few pedestrians milled about on the sidewalks, enabling a private conversation.
“You’re a historian, if I’m not mistaken?” asked Orlovsky.
“Indeed, I am. It’s part of the reason why I’m here.”
“There’s a vacancy at the school where I teach. Perhaps you might be interested?”
Constantine smiled sardonically. “Funny that you mentioned it. I got fired from a college teaching job. Thanks, but I wanted to ask you about something else.”
“History is a dangerous profession in this country. I’m so sorry about your layoff.”
“No worries. Frankly, I was surprised to hear about your profession.”
“Art teacher by day, icon painter by night.”
“And also, the head of a Christian community defying the Patriarchate,” Constantine noted.
“I’m not on the winning side, but with God’s help nothing is ever lost. We call ourselves the Brotherhood of True Believers. Like the early Christians hiding from the Pharisees two thousand years ago, we meet covertly. To avoid detection, the venue must keep changing, so the Brotherhood leases several properties scattered around Moscow.”
“Safe houses?”
“You could put it that way. It takes spycraft to fight spies. The safe houses leave much to be desired, but one has to make do with whatever’s available. Last Sunday, it was a room inside a Khrushchev-era apartment block, a stone’s throw away from the old KGB prison in Lefortovo. The symbolism is ironic, isn’t it? Conducting religious services in some crumbling old apartment does feel wrong, but we view it as God’s test of our resolve. Our churches have been taken away from us, but not our faith. I’m inviting you to join.”
“I appreciate your trust, Father Yakov.”
“Please, call me Yakov Alexeich, like my students do. If Father Ilia trusts you, that’s more than enough for me. We need more good men to keep the light shining through the darkness.”
An enormous golden-domed edifice loomed ahead. It was the fake Cathedral of Christ the Savior, erected after the nominal fall of communism. The original had been destroyed in 1931 by Stalin with a view to construct the Palace of the Soviets in its place—a monstrous 400-meter-tall tower of communist worship. Fortunately, the abomination had never been built beyond its gigantic 160-meter-wide basement. The basement now housed a commercial center, with the fake cathedral slapped atop it in lieu of the Lenin monument which should have crowned the completed palace, a cheap knockoff which only bore an outward resemblance to the original. It occurred to Constantine that the fake church had served the intended purpose of the Palace of the Soviets: a monument to the triumph of evil. It was there, inside the fake cathedral that the Russian clerical hierarchy had signed the act of surrender to the fake church.
“So, what is it that you want to talk to me about?” Orlovsky asked.
“Peter Oltersdorf,” replied Constantine. “Do you know anything about the contents of the Oltersdorf papers?”
“I do. Perhaps more than anyone else. But I’m not sure this is the right time and place for such a sensitive topic. It’s a long story. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Please, Yakov Alexeich, at least give me a clue.”
“Very well. You’re a historian, after all. How much do you know about Admiral Kolchak?”
A crimson flower bloomed in Yakov Orlovsky’s chest, splashing blood to the sound of a gunshot. Orlovsky gaped in mute shock. Stumbling, he clutched at Constantine’s leather jacket before another bullet tore into his shoulder. A terrifying rasp issued from the throat of the dying man. His knees buckled, his body going limp as he held onto Constantine for support. A third slug pierced Orlovsky’s temple. As Orlovsky’s dead body slumped against Constantine, he lowered the sagging weight to the ground.
Overcoming his stupor, Constantine faced the direction of the gunfire.
A Hyundai sedan pulled level. The driver was shooting through the open window.
He saw the muzzle flash a split second earlier than his mind registered the agonizing pain in his left arm. Warm, sticky blood trickled down his forearm and oozed through his fingers as he clamped the wound with his right hand.
He had to flee. But as he spun away and broke into a sprint, a sizzling slug penetrated his left side. He staggered, pressing against the wall of the nearest house and slipping into an alley.
He ran as fast as his legs
carried him, fueled by adrenaline but leaking blood. He dared not look back, knowing that the assassin would be in hot pursuit. At least one shooter sat behind the wheel of the gray Hyundai: there could be others closing in on him. Who were they? How many? He anticipated danger lurking behind every corner, and evil intent in every figure moving toward him. But the people around him reacted to his plight with cold-hearted indifference, ignoring his gunshot wounds or quickening their step to keep a safe distance. Not a single person tried to offer help. You could get shot in broad daylight and nobody would give a damn.
Constantine darted through the twisting alleys, exiting the maze of old buildings a few hundred meters away from the scene of Orlovsky’s murder. He found himself right in front of the mock Cathedral of Christ the Savior. He quickly changed direction, jogging alongside the Soviet-built cyclopean pedestal it rested upon, circumventing it. He dashed past a flock of tourists across the pedestrian Patriarshy Bridge which spanned the Moskva River. The ominous shape of the cathedral receded behind him. Like in a bad dream, he felt as if its evil presence was tugging him back, sucking the life out of him.
The ravaging pain sapped his strength. He had to act on instinct alone. Police or ambulance sirens could prove just as deadly to him as another gun blast. For all he knew, the assassin was connected with the Patriarchate, and hence the FSB. He couldn’t let them find him and finish the job. Public transportation was out of the question for the same reason. He had nowhere to go. Heading back home he might walk straight into an ambush. He reached into his pocket for his phone, not knowing if there was anyone he could call. Gene was probably still on a mission in Asia. But as he fished out the phone, any hope of getting help ebbed away. A round hole gaped in the middle of the cracked touchscreen, perforated by the slug which had hit his side. He tossed away the dead device. At least they wouldn’t be able to use the phone to track him.
Without the phone, his front jacket pocket should have been empty but he felt that it contained another object. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Warily, he fished out a key ring holding a couple of door keys. Yakov Orvovsky must have slipped it inside his pocket as he died, Constantine realized. He had never seen the key ring before, and had no idea why Orlovsky—
The safe house.
Even in death, Orlovsky had given him a lifeline.
Reaching the embankment on the other side of the river, Constantine stopped at a curb and scanned the traffic. Hailing a cab carried risk, as many taxi drivers were former or active FSB men. He needed to find an illegal taxi operating without a license. Moscow was rife with unlicensed cars for hire, but none seemed to be around when he needed one urgently. It was down to pure luck to catch one cruising within a few blocks of the Kremlin, and Constantine spent a few minutes signaling for any vehicle to stop.
His limbs became weak. He could no longer think clearly. He expected the gray Hyundai to appear from nowhere at any moment. The area was crammed with security cameras which covered every inch of every street. If they had access to video feeds, his pursuers would spot him soon. The assassin would dispatch him with ease.
Fear mounted as cars sped by. Then, abruptly, a beat-up Ford hatchback pulled over, tires squealing as it braked. Its sole occupant was an olive-skinned man, perhaps a Tajik immigrant. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
“Where to?”
“Southeast District.”
“Hop in.”
A wave of relief washed over Constantine as he climbed into the rear of the dark green hatchback.
The car eased back into the flow of traffic. The driver glanced at Constantine in the rearview mirror. As soon as he noticed his passenger’s condition, his mouth twisted in an angry scowl.
“Hey, is that blood? I don’t want any trouble!”
“Neither do I, so I won’t tell anyone that you don’t have a meter running.” Constantine winced in pain. “What’s your name?”
“Waheed.”
“How much do you want, Waheed?”
“Two hundred.”
“What?” Constantine asked, confused.
“Not rubles, by Allah! Two hundred bucks. American. And another two hundred to wash the car.”
Four hundred dollars sounded steep, but Constantine wasn’t going to bargain over the price of his survival. He reached inside the jacket for his wallet, glad that he kept his savings in the U.S. currency. He counted off four Ben Franklin portraits and shoved a single bill into Waheed’s outstretched palm.
“Here’s a hundred. I’ll give you the rest when we get there.”
“May Allah reward you and strike your enemies!”
“Thanks for the wishes, but I’d prefer a first aid kit at the moment. You got one?”
“It’s behind the passenger seat.”
“Now that’s what I call top-class service,” Constantine muttered as he found the bag in the storage space at the back, along with a bottle of mineral water. He grabbed both and rummaged the first aid kit. First, he popped a couple of painkillers, washing the pills down with a gulp of water. Then he picked out the items he could use to treat his wounds and stem the bleeding: gauze pads, bandages, antiseptics, adhesive tape, and scissors.
“Southeast, you say?” asked Waheed. “Which address, exactly?”
“Lefortovo Prison.”
“Man, you turning yourself in or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Just drive, Waheed.”
“Okay, whatever you say, chief.”
3
Out of caution, Waheed stopped the Ford a few blocks away from the prison, which was fine with Constantine. He handed his Muslim driver the remaining three hundred dollars and got off. His legs felt wobbly. He retrieved the keychain and glanced at the label attached to it. Only the house and apartment numbers were written on the label—12, 8—without the actual street address. Constantine hoped he could manage to locate the right house. Only a few Khrushchev-era buildings still existed within walking distance of the prison. The majority of the 1960s slums had already been demolished all around Moscow. He’d stumble on his destination, eventually. However, the stabbing pain in his left side and upper arm reminded Constantine that he couldn’t waste time on a lengthy search.
Soon enough, he spotted a dilapidated five-storied apartment block with a matching number, 12. The ugly, concrete-paneled building had the soulless look of communist architecture and all the charm of prison barracks. This particular structure appeared as dead as the Soviet Union. Cracked paint had peeled off the front door. The interior was just as shabby, Constantine saw as he entered. Dim light emanated from a single light bulb, barely illuminating the graffiti-stained walls. At four apartments per level, number 8 had to be the last unit on the second floor. There was no elevator, so Constantine took the stairs. Finding the right door, he pressed the buzzer to check if anyone was inside. He waited for any rustle to sound from within but he only heard his own breathing, heavy from the exertion of his ordeal. He inserted the key and twisted it. The door lock clicked, opening. He turned the handle, pulled the door ajar, slipped inside, slammed the door shut and locked it again with the key.
He felt disoriented at first, surrounded by darkness. After the overwhelming stench which had permeated the stairway, he noticed that the apartment smelled clean. In fact, he sensed a strange yet distinct scent, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. His hand searched for the light switch. As he turned the lights on, he discovered the source of the peculiar odor.
The farthest wall of the living room formed an improvised iconostasis, with rows of framed icons hanging from floor to ceiling. The smell of incense lingered in the air after a recent service, Constantine realized. The only pieces of furniture were a conference table and several chairs arranged before a triptych depicting Christ’s Crucifixion, the Resurrection and the Harrowing of Hell. The icons must have been painted by Orlovsky himself. The divine images transported Constantine’s mind away from the reeking old building he was in, making him fo
rget about his own pain and suffering. He mouthed a prayer, asking the Lord to rest the soul of His devout servant, Yakov Orlovsky. Then he pressed together the tips of his first three blood-smeared fingers and blessed himself with the sign of the cross.
True to typical design, the apartment measured thirty meters. From the living room acting as a church, Constantine proceeded into a tiny cubicle furnished with a couch and a desk. A landline phone rested atop the desk. He picked the handset off the cradle and heard the hum of a dial tone.
He had no room for error. He assumed that his brother’s phone was tapped. All the communications of his friends and acquaintances could be monitored. Constantine’s call would get flagged immediately. He couldn’t risk revealing his location to the assassin and also putting another innocent life in danger.
Constantine remembered that Gene’s friend had boasted about having an untraceable phone number. A tech wizard like Pavel Netto certainly possessed the expertise for it. If he could afford to make just one call, he had to call Pavel. He raked his memory for the number, but it eluded him. As a hacker, Pavel had fixed it to something simple in order to show off.
The frustration was killing him as much as the wounds. Finally, it hit him. The first few digits of Pi. Mentally, he thanked his math schoolteacher.
He punched in the sequence and waited for the call to go through.
“Yeah, who is it? How do you know this number?”
“Pavel, it’s Constantine. Where’s Gene?”
“Hi, dude. His plane has just touched down at the airbase.”
“I need him. I’m in pretty bad shape but there’s nobody I can trust.”
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