“So how come Jonny and his buddy weren’t affected by it out at Lolita?” Aparo added. “Gas masks?”
“Maybe,” I said. I mulled it over some more, then asked, “What do you think?”
“Not to take anything away from my brilliant alternative-fuel theory—but, could be. And if that’s the case—shit, we’ve got to get it back.”
“We’ve got to get him back too. He designed it.”
Aparo nodded as he sped up. “Let’s see what we find at the garage.”
***
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we turned into the rundown industrial park and pulled up by the small management office just inside its rusted gates. No one was there. We got back in the car and drove in until we found the unit that was the registered address for Sokolov’s van. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t the small lock-up garage it turned out to be.
We had two padlocks to get past, and they proved tricky, but not insurmountable, with Aparo besting me by half a minute or so. We pushed up the roller door about an inch, and while Aparo held it open, I crouched down and had a look to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped. I didn’t really expect it to be, and I didn’t see anything suggesting it was.
We pulled it open.
The garage was empty. It was of a decent size, big enough to store the van, with about four feet to spare all around. I hit the lights. It was clean and tidy. No big oil stains on the concrete floor, no odds and ends left to rot there for years. There wasn’t much in it, aside from one shelf hanging at shoulder level all the way down the left-hand wall. It had a couple of cardboard boxes stored on it.
We took them down and opened them up.
They had all kinds of electronic parts in them. Wires, cables, switches, rolls of flat copper-colored metal in different gauges, small plastic boxes filled with miniature circuits and connectors, and a collection of square metal tubes of different lengths and widths—some hollow and some filled with what looked like conducting material. There was also what looked like an old pair of jeweler’s magnifying glasses.
They weren’t car parts, that much I knew. Beyond that, I had no idea what they were or what they could be used for, but I sure as hell wanted to find out. I took several photos of them with my phone and e-mailed them to our in-house computer analysis and response team. It wasn’t necessarily the specialty of the guys at CART, but I knew that their geekiness extended beyond digital data, and if they didn’t know what these things were, I was sure they knew who to ask.
I had a sinking feeling about what they would tell us.
I was e-mailing the last of them when I got a call from an unidentified number. I snatched my phone off the desk, knowing it had to be the pancake-loving hacker I had tasked with my private dirty deed.
“Gimme a sec,” I told Aparo as I stepped away to take the call.
“Konnichiwa,” Kurt’s voice echoed. “You sitting down, boss? I have news.” He paused for effect, then proudly announced, “Target acquired.”
“I’m listening,” I said evenly, not wanting to encourage him too much.
He sounded excited. “So I got into the CCTV cam of the cash point, and I found our guy pulling out last week’s cash. Then he kind of glances around like he’s making sure no one’s watching before he walks off.”
“Maybe he’s just making sure no one’s waiting to mug him.”
“Maybe. But no. It gets better. I found a personal credit card of his with no paper trail. Statements and everything else only comes through to him by e-mail. And not his main Gmail account. I looked through the last three months’ worth of statements and you could say the card use doesn’t really fit that of a married guy with two kids. There are multiple charges to trivial-sounding businesses, but when you dig into who they are, they’re billing names for a lingerie shop called Sylene, a chocolate place called Cocova, and a flower shop called Gilding the Lily. They’re all down in the DC area. Plus he had a single charge of over three hundred dollars to something called L’Escapade. It’s an upmarket sex shop on U Street. Four and a half stars across the board.”
“So maybe he loves his wife. Maybe they’re meeting away from the house to share some private time. Or trying to spice things up with some role-playing.”
He snorted. “You talking from experience?”
I dropped my tone. “Careful, Kurt. Let’s remember the parameters of our relationship.”
He went silent, and I could sense all kinds of pressure valves popping inside his fragile physique.
“I’m kidding,” I told him. “Go on.”
“Well, he has another credit card, the one he shares with his wife. In the last month he’s charged all kinds of stuff on it. Car repairs, a plumbing contractor, his son’s braces, horse-riding lessons for his daughter. Personally I prefer my mount mammoth-shaped and a hundred percent digital. Less chance of real-world injury.”
“Focus, Kurt.”
“Yeah, sorry. My point is, he would have used that card if it was on the up and up. But he’s not. He’s using it cause it’s not with the wife. And here’s the good news. The card was used to guarantee a hotel booking for tonight.”
My skin bristled. “Cash point Thursday.”
“Exactly. And his disciplinary warnings were for arriving late to work on three Fridays in the last couple of months. You know anyone who arrives late at work so he can hang out longer with his wife?”
I wasn’t about to argue with someone whose deep insights into married life were gleaned while living with his mother. “So he books the hotel with the card, but pays the bill in cash.”
“And the authorization for the guarantee to hold the room is wiped clean. It never shows up on a statement. And you want the clincher?”
“Boggle me.”
“The hotel’s right next to the ATM he uses.”
Kurt had come through for me, massively—pun wholeheartedly intended.
I said, “He might be seeing her tonight.”
“I’ll bet he is. Remember, that’s when his wife has her weekly yoga class. Seven till nine. Meanwhile her husband’s putting a hundred dollars’ worth of edible lubricant to good use.” He chuckled. “And there I was, thinking field agents had all the fun.”
This sounded more than promising. “Okay. I need the hotel’s details and a photo of Kirby.”
“Done. And I’ll get into his alibi. Give you even more leverage.”
“Great.”
“He’s lucky he managed to snag a room tonight. The whole town’s booked solid.”
Which was curious. “Why?”
“The White House Correspondents Dinner. It’s tomorrow night. It’s like the Oscars these days. Huge.”
I wondered if it would make my getting a flight down there more difficult. “Okay. What time does he usually arrive?”
“I went through the hotel’s card issuing records. I found Kirby checking in last week and three weeks ago. Always between seven forty-five and eight.”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost noon. Tricky—but doable. Very doable.
I told Kurt, “Nice work, man. Seriously. You’d make a good cop.”
He chuckled. “With this body? I think not. Now, I’ve got a five-way Halo game starting in ten, so I’ll bid you sayonara.”
The line went dead, leaving me to wonder about how I was going to make it down to DC and back undetected given everything else that was going on, and questioning whether cheating on one’s wife would give me enough moral grounds for blackmail.
Then I remembered what they’d done to Alex, and any misgivings I was feeling were smothered into submission.
“Everything okay?” Aparo asked, giving me a curious look.
“Just peachy,” I told him.
I was going to need his help with this, but I wasn’t going to mention it just yet. Everything was moving so fast that my plans could change at any moment.
I just hoped they wouldn’t change enough that I wouldn’t be able to meet our wandering lothario in a few hours.
52
br /> Koschey didn’t need the smelling salts. By late morning, he’d returned from his shopping-and-renting expedition to find Sokolov awake.
The scientist looked rough. Which was expected. On top of everything he’d been through, he hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink for hours.
Koschey had what it took to remedy that. He’d bought supplies—food, drink—as well as everything else he thought they’d need.
He’d also rented a car. Being close to the airport, it wasn’t too far to get to the big agencies there, where he found a large selection to choose from. Using a Greek passport and matching credit card—the upheavals in Greece had turned it into the European country of choice when it came to obtaining fake identities—he’d driven off with a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows that had less than a thousand miles on the clock. He was pretty sure the SUV would do the trick. The fact that it was the vehicle of choice for government agencies was an added bonus that could always come in handy.
He peeled the tape off Sokolov’s mouth and freed his hands from the radiator mount, then he cuffed them together again, only in front of Sokolov this time, so he could use them to eat and drink. He gestured at the sandwiches, bananas, and the big bottle of water he’d placed on the floor next to him.
“Eat. Drink. We have work to do.”
Sokolov eyed him hesitantly, then reached out and did as ordered.
“Daphne,” he asked after sipping some water. “Is she all right? The truth?”
“She’s fine. Probably in protective custody at the moment. I told you—I have no interest in her.”
Sokolov nodded, forlorn. “If you’re taking me back to Russia . . . will I be able to contact her from there? Just to let her know . . . why?”
Koschey nodded, thinking about it. “Let’s take things one step at a time. Cooperate. Do as you’re told. And we’ll see.”
He waited until Sokolov had finished half the big sandwich, then he got down to business.
“We need to move it out of the van,” he told Sokolov. “I have an SUV with a big trunk area. I want you to put it in it. How long will it take?”
Sokolov frowned.
“And please, comrade,” Koschey added. “Don’t lie and make life any more difficult for yourself or for Daphne. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can all move on.”
Sokolov shook his head in defeat. “I need to dismantle it.”
“I want it operational,” Koschey clarified. “Not in crates.”
Which surprised Sokolov. His face crunched up with concern. “You’re going to use it?”
Koschey just looked at him, his face as expressionless as a slate of marble. “Just do as you’re told. For Daphne’s sake.”
Sokolov held his gaze for a moment, then nodded in defeat. “That’ll take longer.” He paused, thinking about it, then added, “I’ll need tools. It has to be mounted into place.”
“I bought everything I thought you might need. Anything else you need I can also get. From what I can see, the only connection it has to the van itself is to get its power, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you could take it out and put it anywhere, really. As long as it has a power source.”
Sokolov nodded. “It’s powered by four rechargeable fuel cells in the back. The engine charges them when it’s running. They’re very heavy.”
“Not a problem.”
He asked Sokolov more questions. About the device’s other settings. About range. About whether it could go through walls. Windows. Three-inch-thick bullet- and blastproof glass.
The answers he got were all pleasing.
“Finish your food,” he finally told Sokolov. “Then let’s get started.”
Then he left him and went out to make the first call that would set things in motion.
***
SOKOLOV’S SPIRITS SANK EVEN lower as he watched his captor walk away.
The bastard was going to use it. An insidious new weapon was about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Pain and suffering to innocents would inevitably ensue. There would be all kinds of ramifications, all kinds of uses Sokolov hadn’t even dreamed of yet, but that others would. They always did. There were many out there who were more than happy to let their imaginations take them to the darkest corners of the human psyche, who didn’t need to be paid to dream up new ways to inflict pain.
Things would never be the same from here on, and it would be because of him.
He considered not doing what his captor had asked, even if it meant the Russian would torture him to try to force him to do it. Which the Russian would. Sokolov didn’t doubt that. And he doubted he’d be strong enough to endure it. In the end, he’d wind up doing it anyway.
He thought back to his grandfather’s darkest hour. The man’s misguided intellect had caused so much damage, and he wondered if he was now destined to cause more of it. Facing his own darkest moment, Sokolov contemplated killing himself, assuming he could find a way to do it. But he quickly dismissed it as the wrong way forward. The Russian had his device already. It was too late. The genie was out of the bottle.
More important, there was Daphne.
He had to keep fighting. He had to try to overcome it all.
For Daphne.
53
Misha’s Journal
Petrograd
September 1916
Things are spiraling out of control, and I fear the worst.
And yet, it was all going so well.
The mystic peasant from Siberia was well entrenched as the royal couple’s irreplaceable healer, soothsayer, and stalwart. He was influencing virtually all of their major decisions. The empress was and remains his supreme protector and defender. Over the last few years, anyone who made threatening rumblings against him was swiftly removed from his position and neutralized.
That has all changed.
Madame Lokhtina is long gone. The poor woman was banished by her husband a few years ago after he found out about her scandalous dalliances with my master and stripped her of everything she owned. I hear this former beauty, once regarded as a beacon of St. Petersburg’s high society, now roams the back roads of Russia like an escapee from a lunatic asylum, begging for alms, barefoot and still in her filthy white dress, with a strap around her forehead on which the word “Hallelujah” is scribbled barely legibly.
There is no shortage of replacements for her. Rasputin is comfortably settled into his spacious new apartment on Gorokhovaya Street. And although he no longer needs to take his aristocratic beauties or his prostitutes to bathhouses or seedy hotels, he still cavorts openly with his coterie of female companions, causing his vilification to keep rising in intensity and in dangerousness.
He has gone from being the subject of hushed rumors to being paraded disparagingly across newspaper articles on a daily basis. The newspapers are obsessed by him. Only the sinking of the Titanic managed, briefly, to divert their attention from him. The press hounds are fascinated by stories of his incessant debauchery and revelry. There is even talk of rape, such as his having forced himself upon the heir’s nurse at the royal palace.
The nobility and the bourgeoisie are in an uproar. Because of the blind faith and unshakable devotion the tsarina and her doting husband extend to Rasputin, the people have lost all respect for the royal couple. There are even rumors—ill-founded, I would hope—that he has bedded the tsarina herself.
Much to my frustration, Rasputin doesn’t seem to care. While I toil away in secret at perfecting my device and exploring the extent of its powers, he spends his time seducing and partying with the gypsies. He parades his women without shame and flaunts his lecherous ways without apology while the tsar and tsarina reject any criticism of him and shut down any investigation that threatens to give credence to what they deem as nothing more than malicious lies or misinformed ramblings.
There is also a lot of contempt at Rasputin’s meddling in high political affairs. He is openly interfering, going so far as to dictate appointments at th
e highest level of government and in the Holy Synod.
And then there is his stance against war.
It first flared up when the Austro-Hungarian monarchs, backed by their German protectors, decided to annex Bosnia and Herzegovina. The Russian bourgeoisie and the nobility were enraged and demanded war to defend their Slav brethren. The press was also calling for it. The military, eager for a chance to avenge their defeat in the Russo-Japanese war, wanted it. The tsar himself, educated in a military school and keen to endear himself to Russian society, was also on a war footing.
The tsarina, however, was against it. She hadn’t forgotten the bloody revolution that followed the defeat against the Japanese. She is half-German—the kaiser, Wilhelm II, is her uncle—which made her position even more difficult.
Rasputin stepped in to help. He was passionately against war. As a man of God, it was natural for him to be in favor of peace, but as the empress’s miracle worker, it became a mission at which he couldn’t fail.
He spoke to the tsar repeatedly, warning him of defeats and revolution. The tsar listened—and backed off. War was averted.
I was delighted by this, of course. It was a noble, glorious achievement. Others were not as pleased. In the corridors of power and in the salons, all of St. Petersburg was incensed at how an uneducated and degenerate peasant had blocked a just war and brought down humiliation on their great nation. Powerful voices rose up against Rasputin—first the prime minister, Stolypin, then the Church’s hierarchs, Feofan, Hermogen, and Iliodor.
Stolypin, infuriated by Rasputin’s inexorable influence over the royal couple, unleashed a relentless persecution campaign against him. He spoke out against him in the Duma. He got the newspapers to run vicious stories about his scandalous behavior. He had him followed by agents of the Okhrana secret police, making our meetings more difficult to arrange. The surveillance men even gave Rasputin’s women code names: Winter Woman, Dove, Owl, Bird, and so on. They were only too happy to leak their findings to the reporters who were on Rasputin’s trail.