“And since then?”
“I’ve been poking and prying and asking pointed questions wherever and whenever I can,” she told him.
“Sounds pretty dangerous—in the present circumstances,” he commented.
One side of Fiona Devin’s generous mouth ticked upward in a lopsided smile. “The authorities here may not like it much,” she said. “But remember that asking awkward questions is precisely what they expect a Western reporter like me to do. And they know that Kiryanov could have told me at least a tiny bit of what happened with those poor people. If I got wind of a juicy story like those deaths and then simply sat back on my hands, they’d grow more suspicious still.”
“Have you had any luck?” Jon asked.
She shook her head disgustedly. “Not a bit. I’ve haunted the corridors of the Central Clinical Hospital until I can smell the disinfectant they use in my sleep, and all to no avail. I’ve run straight into a solid wall of obstruction and evasion. Naturally, the staff there all deny that any mysterious disease outbreak ever took place.”
“Naturally,” Smith said drily. “What about prowling through their medical records?”
“Strictly forbidden,” Fiona Devin said flatly. “The hospital director insists that the medical records of all current or former patients are strictly off-limits. Going over his head to get the necessary authorizations from the Ministry of Health could take weeks.”
“Or forever.”
She nodded. “Far more likely. One thing is quite clear, though: The doctors and nurses there are all utterly on edge. You can sense the fear rolling off them under all that horrid carbolic soap. Believe me, they aren’t going to talk to a foreigner or anyone else about what happened, no matter what kind of inducement is offered to them.”
Smith thought that over. If the hospital was a dead end, he was going to have to explore other angles. From what Petrenko had said, it sounded as though the Kremlin orders quashing talk about the strange deaths came later—after the mini-epidemic had run its lethal course. Before then, the hospital’s doctors had been trying everything in their power to diagnose and treat their sick patients. Even though the Russian hadn’t explicitly mentioned doing so, he was willing to bet that Petrenko and his colleagues had shared the data they had gathered with other medical professionals. At least until the Kremlin clamped a lid on the situation. One of the first principles for anyone fighting an unknown disease was to spread the information across a wide spectrum, bringing as much competent brainpower and lab time as possible to bear on solving its deadly mysteries.
Well, Smith knew people in some of the leading Russian medical and scientific institutions—top-notch scientists who were sure to have been consulted about this illness. Sure, they would have received the same cease-and-desist orders from on high, but with luck he might be able to persuade one or more of them to give him access to their case records or lab test results.
Fiona Devin nodded slowly when he ran that idea past her. “Approaching them could be risky, though,” she pointed out. “You’re masquerading as John Martin, a harmless and inconsequential Canadian social scientist. But you won’t be able to use your cover when dealing with people who already know you by sight and reputation. If just one of them panics and runs off screaming about being approached by Colonel Jonathan Smith, the American military disease specialist, some very loud alarm bells will start ringing inside the Kremlin.”
“True,” Smith agreed quietly. “But I don’t see many other real options, Ms. Devin.” He pushed his untouched second beer to the side. “You’ve seen the lists of those who’ve been hit with this illness. We really don’t have time for anything subtle or indirect. Somehow I must find a way to make contact with the Russian experts who are likely to have the information we need.”
“Then at least let us run some quick checks on these possible sources first,” she said. “My team and I know the ground here better than you do. Maybe we can weed out those who are too close to Dudarev’s regime—or too openly frightened by it—to be worth questioning.”
“How long will you need for this vetting process?” he asked.
“Several hours, starting from the moment you give me the names and institutional affiliations of those you’re interested in,” Fiona said firmly.
Smith raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That fast?”
She grinned at him. “I really am very good at my job, Colonel. And I’ve got some decent sources, both inside the government and out of it.”
Almost against his will, he found himself grinning back at her. Now that her earlier mood of tightly repressed anger and sorrow had faded, her natural air of buoyant self-confidence had come bubbling back to the surface. It was infectious. “So, how do I get in touch with you again?”
Fiona pulled a business card out of her small handbag and quickly jotted down a telephone number on the back. “You can safely reach me through that secure number, day or night.”
He slipped the card into his shirt pocket.
“In the meantime, I’ll keep the pressure on the Russian medical bureaucracy from my end,” she promised. “I have an interview set up tomorrow morning largely for that very purpose. With Konstantin Malkovic.”
Smith whistled softly. “The financier? The guy who made billions in commodities and currency speculation?”
Fiona nodded. “The very one.”
“He’s an American, isn’t he?”
“A naturalized American,” she agreed. “Much as I am myself, for that matter. But Malkovic is Serbian by birth, and he’s invested heavily in Russian industries over the last several years. He also donates large sums to the charities trying to rebuild this country’s antiquated health care systems. And all of that investing and donating has bought him close ties to these new lads in the Kremlin. No matter how much Dudarev and the other ‘men of power’ long to bring back the old ways, they’re not utter fools. They walk softly around a man with so much money to throw around.”
“And you hope to persuade Malkovic to start asking a few awkward questions of his own about this disease?” Smith guessed.
“Indeed, I do,” Fiona agreed. “He’s said to have quite a temper, and he’s used to getting his own way.” A look of devilish delight danced in her bright blue-green eyes. “So I would very much hate to be the first Russian official forced to refuse his requests.”
Chapter Fourteen
Near the Russo-Ukrainian Border
Four requisitioned passenger buses crammed full of Russian soldiers crawled along a narrow, deeply rutted track, an old logging road, slowly winding their way deeper into the pitch-black forest. Overhanging branches scraped loudly along the sides and windows of the darkened vehicles.
Up at the front, Captain Andrei Yudenich crouched beside the driver, holding on to the back of the man’s seat to keep his balance. He peered out through the cracked and dirty windshield, again trying vainly to get a better idea of just where he and the crews of his tank company were being sent. He grimaced, deeply disquieted by recent events.
So far, this twenty-four-hour-long journey from their barracks outside Moscow had been a nightmare of misdirection. Their original orders had sent them south by rail toward Voronezh, ostensibly as the first stage of a battalion-sized deployment to Chechnya. But once there, they had been switched onto another train, this one heading back west to Bryansk. From there, Yudenich and his tank crews had been bundled onto these old buses and sent lumbering off into the woods, following a confusing succession of newly plowed country roads.
A soldier in a white camouflage smock suddenly loomed up ahead, illuminated by the wavering beams of the headlights. He was standing on a mound of snow piled up by the side of the logging road. A bright red armband and glowing baton identified him as a member of the Commandant’s Service—a special Army-level unit that served as field security and traffic control troops.
The white-smocked soldier waved his baton abruptly, pointing imperiously to the right. Obeying his signaled order, the buses tur
ned off the logging track one after the other and rumbled up an even narrower path, one newly hacked out of the forest, judging by the fresh-cut stumps visible on either side. Frowning openly now, Yudenich clung tighter to the back of the driver’s seat, swaying up and down as the heavy vehicle bounced through deep ruts.
Several minutes later, they pulled into a clearing and stopped.
More field security troops in red armbands, with assault rifles held ready, swarmed around the buses, shouting, “All out! Everyone out! Move! Move!”
Yudenich was the first one through the open doors. He dropped lightly onto the rock-hard, frozen earth of the clearing and then saluted the nearest officer—a captain like himself. His tank crews tumbled out of the buses behind him, hurriedly forming up in ranks under the chivvying of their sergeants and his lieutenants.
“Your orders?” the other man snapped.
Wordlessly, Yudenich dug the thick sheaf of papers out of the breast pocket of his field jacket.
The other captain flipped them open and studied them in the light of a small shielded flashlight held by an orderly. “I see that you’re part of the Fourth Guards Tank Division,” he commented. He handed the orders back and then studied a list on his clipboard. “Right. You and your company are posted to Cantonment Fifteen, Barracks Tents Four through Eight.”
“Cantonment Fifteen?” Yudenich asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.
“Off through the trees over there, Captain,” the other man said tiredly, nodding toward the forest beyond the clearing. “You’ll be guided.”
Obediently, Yudenich looked in that direction. His mouth fell open. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, he could see that they were standing on the outskirts of an enormous military encampment, one built right in among the trees. Huge panels of infrared-and radar-absorbent camouflage netting were strung overhead, and coils of barbed wire stretched as far as the eye could see, apparently encircling the whole camp. Teams of heavily armed guards—Interior Ministry troops by their uniforms—and growling dogs nervously prowled the perimeter.
“What the devil is going on here?” he asked quietly.
“You’ll be briefed when you need to know,” the captain told him. He shrugged. “Until then, you communicate only through your own chain-of-command. Clear?”
Yudenich nodded.
“Good,” the other man said grimly. “And make sure your boys don’t go wandering off. Anyone who crosses the perimeter without authorization gets a bullet in the neck and a shallow grave hacked out of the snow and frozen mud. No formal court-martial. No appeals. No mercy. Understand?”
Yudenich nodded again, shivering suddenly under his heavy camouflage jacket.
Moscow
Erich Brandt stepped off the steep escalator and walked into the vast, echoing underground hall of the Novokuznetskaya Metro station. Throngs of tired-looking shift workers heading home surged around him. Even this late at night, subway trains rumbled loudly through the tunnels, arriving and departing in warm gusts of oil-scented air every two or three minutes. Moscow’s underground railway system was the best in the world, carrying nearly nine million passengers a day—more than the London Underground and New York’s subways put together. And in contrast to the dreary utilitarian hubs of the West, many of the Metro stations were gems of art and architecture. As a means of demonstrating the growing power and culture of the now-dead Soviet Union, each had been built in marble and decorated with sculptures, carved reliefs, mosaics, and enormous hanging chandeliers.
For an instant, Brandt stood still, eyeing the khaki-colored bas-reliefs lining the walls. They depicted soldiers and military leaders, ranging from stout Marshal Kutusov, who had fought Napoleon at Austerlitz and Borodino, to panels carved to show heroic Second World War Soviet Naval Infantrymen leaping ashore from assault boats to join the climactic battle at Stalingrad. On the high curved ceiling overhead, occasional mosaics showed smiling factory workers and farmers reveling in their happy, idyllic lives as servants of the Communist State.
The big, blond-haired man snorted wryly. The Novokuznetskaya station had been constructed in 1943, at the height of the brutal Soviet struggle against Nazi Germany. Its art celebrated certain victory over Hitler and his fascist minions. Trust Alexei Ivanov to choose this as a place to meet his unwelcome East German colleague. For all his reputed subtlety as a spymaster, the head of the Thirteenth Directorate had a blunt, heavy-handed sense of humor.
After a moment, Brandt spotted the gray-haired Russian intelligence chief sitting calmly on a marble bench and went straight over to sit beside him. Both men were much the same height.
“Herr Brandt,” Ivanov said quietly.
“I have the special HYDRA variant you requested,” Brandt told him.
“Show me.”
The blond-haired man opened his briefcase, revealing a small, soda-can-sized thermos. With his thick leather gloves still on, he unsealed the metal cylinder in a puff of vapor, pulled out a small vial full of clear frozen liquid, and then handed it over.
Ivanov held the vial up to the light. “A lingering death with so innocent an appearance. Remarkable,” he murmured. Then he glanced at his companion. “But how can I be sure that this tube contains anything more lethal than ordinary tap water?”
“In all candor, you cannot. Not without using it against the intended target. You will have to trust me.”
The head of the Thirteenth Directorate smiled grimly. “Trust is not something I grant easily to anyone, Herr Brandt. Especially not with more than a million euros’ worth of state funds involved.”
The ex–Stasis officer returned the same thin, cold smile. “That is understandable, but unavoidable. You asked for a means of ensuring the continued cooperation of my employer—or for taking vengeance on him should that prove necessary. Renke and I have met your request. Whether you believe us or not is up to you. Under the circumstances, our price is entirely reasonable.”
Ivanov grunted. “Very well, you’ll have your money. I’ll authorize the second wire transfer to Switzerland tonight.” He held the vial up to the light again and then looked narrowly at Brandt. “What if our scientists instead used the material this contains to reverse-engineer the HYDRA technology? Then we would no longer need you, Professor Renke, or your master.”
“You could try that, I suppose.” The blond-haired man shrugged his massive shoulders. “But Renke assures me that such an attempt would inevitably fail. Your researchers would only recover a few broken fragments of unusable genetic material drifting in a sea of dying bacteria.”
The head of the Thirteenth Directorate nodded slowly. “A pity.” He slid the vial back into the thermos. The thermos itself went into his own coat pocket.
Brandt said nothing.
“One thing more, Herr Brandt,” Ivanov said abruptly. “I want your personal assurance that your security for HYDRA is still intact. Now that we are entering the final phases of our own military preparations, absolute secrecy is vital. The Americans and their allies must not discover what is about to happen.”
“Both Kiryanov and Petrenko are dead,” Brandt said flatly, hiding his concerns about the missing Colonel Jon Smith. “There are no other outstanding threats to HYDRA,” he lied.
“Good.” Ivanov smiled again, but his dark brown eyes were completely devoid of any warmth or amusement. “And you understand that we will hold you personally responsible for any failure?”
Brandt nodded tightly, feeling droplets of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. “Yes.”
“Then I bid you good night, my friend.” The gray-haired chief of the Thirteenth Directorate rose heavily to his feet. “For now we have nothing more to discuss.”
Chapter Fifteen
February 18
Warm in her full-length, fur-lined coat, Fiona Devin came out of the Borovitskaya Metro station and turned south. She walked carefully along the icy pavement, moving gracefully around the other pedestrians on their way to work in the lingering darkness. Tho
ugh it was morning by the clock, the long winter night still gripped the city. Not far ahead, a large mansion rose above the street, set on a massive stone base. Pillars and ornate carvings decorated the building’s white facade and a perfectly proportioned rotunda topped its roof. To the east, Moscow’s streets and other buildings fell away, sloping downhill toward the red walls and towers of the Kremlin.
She smiled narrowly to herself. She was not surprised that Konstantin Malkovic had set up shop in one of the Russian capital’s most beautiful and conspicuous locations. The Serbian-born billionaire was famous for both his self-aggrandizement and his lavish spending. This mansion, Pashkov House, had been built in the late eighteenth century for a fantastically wealthy Russian officer, Captain Pyotr Pashkov, a man determined to own the grandest private home in all of Moscow, one perched on a hillside overlooking the Kremlin itself. After the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, the building had become an annex of the adjoining Russian State Library, the repository of roughly forty million precious books, periodicals, and photographs.
Shortly after deciding to make Moscow one of the centers of his global business empire, Malkovic had donated more than twenty million dollars to help restore the sagging fortunes of the aging and antiquated Russian archives. One of the strings attached to his grant had been permission to set up a suite of offices on the top floor of the Pashkov House. Protests by a few architectural purists had fallen on newly rich and newly deaf official ears.
Bells from the nearby Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, recently rebuilt after its destruction by Stalin, began pealing, echoing across the surrounding neighborhoods. It was just after nine. Her interview with the billionaire was scheduled to begin in ten minutes.
Moving faster now, Fiona strode up the broad stone steps and into the main hallway. There a bored-looking functionary checked her name against the register and directed her up the main interior staircase. Two unsmiling security guards waiting at the top carefully examined her identification, closely studied her camera and tape recorder, and then motioned her through a set of detectors, checking her for weapons and traces of explosives.