Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (31 page)

Oleg Kirov sat by himself in one corner of the noisy room, silently smoking a cigarette. Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the table in front of him. He had a pensive look about him.

Together, Smith and Fiona made their way over through the crowds. “May we join you?” Jon asked in accented Russian.

Kirov looked up at them with a grave, welcoming nod. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” He stood up, pulled out a chair for Fiona, and then signaled a waitress to bring fresh glasses. “Shall I ask your names? Or would that be considered rude on so brief an acquaintance?”

“Not at all,” Smith answered smoothly. He sat down and slid his new Swedish passport across the table. True to his boasts, Iashvili had done superb work. The forged passport looked as though he had carried it around for several years and it included entry and exit stamps for a number of different countries. “I’m Dr. Kalle Strand, an epidemiologist assigned to the World Health Organization.”

“And my name is Berit Lindkvist,” Fiona said with an impish grin. “Dr.

Strand’s personal assistant.”

Kirov arched an eyebrow. “With the emphasis on personal?”

She wagged a stern finger at him. “Not all Swedes are sex-crazed, Mr.

Kirov. My relationship with Dr. Strand is strictly business.”

“I stand corrected, Ms. Lindkvist,” the Russian replied with an answering smile. He sat quietly a while longer, studying their changed appearance.

Then he nodded. “A good job. It should suffice.”

“Let’s hope so,” Smith said. He resisted the urge to rub at his eyebrows. A blond wig covered his dark hair, but he’d had to bleach his eyebrows to match and now they were itching like crazy. A pair of cheek inserts broadened his face, and padding around his waist added fifteen or twenty pounds to his apparent weight. And a pair of heavy black-frame eyeglasses with clear lenses should draw attention away from his blue eyes. None of it was very comfortable, but, taken together, the various changes altered his looks enough to give him a decent shot at passing through any militia checkpoint without being spotted.

Fiona Devin had undergone a similar transformation. She had cut her shoulder-length hair shorter and dyed it a dark red. Heels added an inch to her height while new undergarments changed her figure subtly, but enough so that she seemed a very different woman.

Jon fell silent while the waitress cleared away the old vodka glasses and replaced them with new ones. Then he asked, “Did your friend in the FSB give you any information worth sharing?”

“He did,” Kirov said heavily. His eyes were troubled. “First, he confirmed that the manhunt for you was set in motion by orders from the very highest levels of the Kremlin. The militia and Ministry of the Interior units involved have instructions to report directly to Alexei Ivanov.”

“Ivanov?” Fiona repeated with a frown. “That’s not good.”

Smith leaned forward. “Who exactly is this Ivanov character?”

“He’s the head of the FSB’s Thirteenth Directorate,” Kirov told him. “He takes his orders from President Dudarev and no one else. For all practical purposes, his section operates independently of the regular FSB command structure. It is said that his men violate the law and our constitution with total im-punity. And I believe those rumors.”

Fiona nodded. “The man is ruthless and completely amoral. But he’s also extremely competent.” Her face darkened. “Which leaves me wondering how we managed to escape that first ambush at all. Why murder Vedenskaya on the street and then try to kidnap us using a fake ambulance crew? Win not just call out the militia and have them snap us up?”

“Because that was not Ivanov’s show,” Kirov said quietly. “At least not completely. My former colleague managed to get a look at the first militia reports of

the incident—before the Kremlin ordered a halt to any further investigation.”

“And?” Smith asked.

“The militia managed to identify two of the dead men,” Kirov said. ‘Both were former KGB, men who were used chiefly for ‘wet work’ against dissidents and suspected traitors.”

Smith nodded grimly. “Wet work” was a euphemism for State-sanctioned murder. “You said ‘former’ KGB?”

“Correct,” Kirov said. “For the past several years, they have been employed by the Brandt Group.” He shrugged. “The same people who tried to eliminate you in Prague.”

“But Brandt and his thugs work for the highest bidder, not on their own whim,” Fiona pointed out. “So who was paying the bills to have us kidnapped? The Kremlin, through Ivanov? Or someone else?”

“That is still unclear,” Kirov admitted. “But my colleague did learn that the ambulance was registered to the Saint Cyril Medical Center.”

Fiona saw Smith’s questioning look and explained. “The center is a sort of joint Western/Russian teaching hospital set up to improve the standard of health care in this country.” She turned to Kirov. “Was the ambulance stolen?”

“If so,” the Russian said flatly, “the theft does not seem to have been reported to the authorities.”

“How very curious,” Smith said drily. “And who funds this medical clinic?”

“It’s a public-private consortium,” Fiona told him. “Roughly a third of its budget comes from the Ministry of Health. But the rest of its money comes from a network of foreign charities and foundations — ” She stopped abruptly, apparently deep in thought. Then her jaw tightened. She looked up at them in dismay. “Including a very substantial percentage from a foundation controlled by Konstantin Malkovic.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Smith said, contemplating the chain of events over the past two days from a new perspective. An ugly possibility now reared its head, one they could not afford to ignore. He gestured toward Fiona. “Consider this: You tell Malkovic about this disease outbreak and the official cover-up. He says that he’s horrified and promises that he’ll do whatever he can to help you learn the truth. But hey, presto, within just a couple of hours, you’re under close surveillance by a professional tag team. Are you with me so far?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” Smith continued. “You manage to shake the tail, but probably not until after they spot us together at the Patriarch’s Pond. Right then all sorts of alarm bells must have started going off in various places. Later that same night, the Brandt Group swoops in to nail us both. And now it turns out that the ambulance they used just happens to belong to a hospital that gets a ton of money from good old Konstantin Malkovic.”

“You believe that he may be involved in this conspiracy, together with Dudarev?” Kirov asked, frowning.

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt?” Smith said. He shook his head. “No. All of this stuff could be just pure coincidence. But there sure seems to be a hell of a lot of smoke drifting around Mr. Malkovic, doesn’t there?”

“So there does,” Fiona agreed bitterly. “Enough to imagine there may well be some very bright flames dancing about beneath the smoke.” Her face was flushed with anger as she recalled the details of her interview with Malkovic and put a new spin on what he had said to her. She gritted her teeth in frustration. “Not that we stand much chance of pinning anything on him right now.”

“That is so,” Kirov said, equally grimly. “If this billionaire is in league with the Kremlin, he will take every conceivable precaution so long as you and Colonel Smith are still alive. No one unknown to him will be allowed anywhere near his person, let alone near any incriminating evidence. Pursuing Malkovic directly would only mean putting our own heads in a noose.”

Smith nodded. “You’re right. It still makes more sense to contact the families of the victims while we can. Obtaining solid data on this new disease is our first priority. But we should brief Fred Klein on what we suspect before we make our next move.”

“There is one more thing I think Mr. Klein should know,” Kirov said slowly. “According to my colleague in the security service, there are signs of an even greater danger stirring in this country, a danger that may well be connected in some way to this mysterious illness, but eclipsing it in size and scope.”

As he talked, Smith and Fiona sat silently, listening with growing concern while Kirov recounted the rumors of intensive military preparation that were beginning to circulate through the upper levels of the FSB headquarters at Lubyanka Square. There were whispers of secret troop movements and military exercises, the movement of vast stockpiles of ammunition, food, and fuel to camouflaged supply dumps on Russia’s borders, and ever-tighter security around the Kremlin and the Ministry of Defense. And they all seemed to point toward the unthinkable —a campaign of conquest aimed at the former Soviet republics.

The White House

“Mr. Klein, sir,” Estelle Pike said tartly, ushering the pale, long-nosed man into the Oval Office. “He insists on seeing you.”

With a wry, welcoming smile, President Sam Castilla looked up from the pile of briefing folders crowding his pine table desk. There were shadows under his eyes, showing the effects of several long days and as many sleepless nights. He nodded toward one of the chairs in front of the desk, “lake a seat, Fred. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Klein obeyed, watching in silence while his old friend finished skimming a memo. Large, bold red letters stamped across the top indicated that it included top-secret intelligence obtained from U.S. spy satellites. Castilla came to the end, snorted in disgust, and stuffed the document back into one of the folders.

“More trouble?” the head of Covert-One asked carefully.

“In spades.” Castilla ran his big hands distractedly through his hair and then indicated the folders stacked in front of him. “Our satellites and signals intercept stations seem to be picking up signs of Russian military moves and increasing readiness in several frontier districts —those bordering Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Kazakhstan. But the intelligence is damned sketch), and no one in the Pentagon or the CIA seems willing to place any bets on what may be going on.”

“Because of problems with the data?” Klein wondered. “Or because they’re having trouble analyzing the facts they’ve got?”

“Both,” Castilla growled. He shuffled through the various folders, picked one out, and shoved it across the desk. “There’s an example of what I’m getting. Take a look for yourself.”

It was a Defense Intelligence Agency report on the possible buildup of Russian divisions stationed in Chechnya and along the Caucasus Mountains.

Relying largely on satellite photos showing large amounts of military equipment moving by rail into the areas around Grozny, some analysts speculated that the Russians were building up forces for yet another all-out offensive on the region’s Islamic rebels. Others disputed this conclusion, claiming the rail shipments were only part of a normal troop rotation. A small minority claimed that the tank and motor rifle formations ostensibly being transferred to Chechnya were actually being diverted to other areas, though no one could say exactly where.

Klein flipped through the folder quickly, reading with growing disapproval.

By its very nature, intelligence analysis was an imperfect, imprecise business.

But this report was fuzzier than most. The competing theories were couched in remarkably vague terms, loaded down with so many qualifiers that they lacked any semblance of conviction, and were presented in a jumble, without making any attempt to rank them in order of probability. From the standpoint of a senior policymaker, especially one at the president’s level, the analysis was

essentially useless.

He looked up in dismay. “This is second-string material, Sam.”

“Try third-string,” Castilla said grimly. “Our best Russia analysts are either dead or running scared that they’re next. The folks who are next in line just don’t have the same level of experience … and it shows.”

Klein nodded. Sorting out the wheat from the chaff of modern intelligence—garbled fragments of intercepted communications, satellite photos that were difficult to interpret, stray rumors passed along by agents and embassy staffs, and all the rest—was a skill that took years of training and practice to fully develop.

Still frowning, the president took off his reading glasses and tossed them onto his desk. He looked across at Klein. “Which brings us to Covert-One’s assignment, pinning down the cause of this illness. What have you learned so far?”

“Less than I would like,” the other man admitted. “But I have just received an urgent signal from Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin.”

“And?”

“They’ve definitely run into something very nasty going on in Moscow,”

Klein said quietly. He grimaced, resisting the temptation to fiddle with the battered briarvvood pipe tucked away inside his suit coat. “Some of their news ties into those reports you just showed me. Unfortunately, precisely what it may all mean is not yet completely clear to me.”

Castilla listened intently while Klein summarized what his team had reported, including their suspicions about the possible involvement of Konstantin Malkovic and the rumors of impending military action passed on by Oleg Kirov’s contact inside the Russian security service.

The lines on the president’s face grew deeper. “I don’t like the sound of this, Fred. Not one little bit.” He sat back in his chair. “So there’s no doubt that what killed those people in Moscow two months ago is the same disease we’re confronting now?”

“No doubt at all,” Klein told him bleakly. “Smith confirms that the symptoms and test results he saw correlate perfectly with those reported by the CDC and other researchers. But…” His voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“Without solid evidence of official Russian involvement in spreading this mystery illness as a weapon, we can’t expect anyone else—whether in NATO

or in the other countries around Russia —to agree to any serious countermeasures,” Klein continued. He shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically.

“The Kremlin’s efforts to cover up an epidemic may be regarded as criminally stupid, but our European allies are not going to see that as a justification for possible economic sanctions or for raising NATO’s alert status.”